


Hell Rides His Right

by Mild_Guy



Category: Super Smash Brothers
Genre: Action, Awkward Romance, Blood and Injury, Boxing & Fisticuffs, Complete, F/M, Gritty, Light Angst, Novella, Strategy & Tactics, Super Smash Bros. Brawl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:00:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23745697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mild_Guy/pseuds/Mild_Guy
Summary: Little Mac sits alone, watching the shadows grow long and the dust gather ever thicker on the trophies he can't bring himself to clean. An invitation arrives—from a multiverse spanning tournament. For the champion with nothing left to prove, a new world in which to prove it all over again. There's just one, little catch...
Relationships: Little Mac/Lyndis
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15





	1. The Offer

**Author's Note:**

> Acknowledgments: Many thank-yous to Byoshi for the beta reads. Any errors and ropy prose that remain are by my hand and are no fault of theirs.
> 
> Please do not copy or distribute this story without my consent.

* * *

This is a story of true victory!! But the road is long...  
—Mike Tyson's Punch Out!!

...  
And the ropes ain't there, and the crowd ain't there;  
It's me and him, in the ring lights' glare;  
Like cavemen foes in an age of stone,  
On the ridge of the silent world, alone....  
\--Robert E. Howard, In The Ring.

* * *

One minute, eighteen seconds remained on the match timer when the yellow warning lights overhead began spinning. Down there, in the arena, they had tossed an Assist Trophy item to the warring gladiators.

Up in the assistant lounge, restlessness rippled through the motley assortment of children, demons, and space aliens I had for coworkers. Excite Biker elbowed me in the side. “Maybe tonight's the lucky night, Mac.” His grin creased his windburned cheeks. He and his flock of hog riders had gone in on four separate fights today. A couple of the more incorrigible ones were already bending over to take their helmets out from under their chairs.

Nearly every other assistant had enjoyed a second turn in the ring. My count for the day sat at nadda. The other assistants were starting to crack jokes when they thought I wasn't within ear shot.

The pulsing lights froze to solid green.

“Little Mac. Deploy.” The R.O.B. technician waggled his pincer arms in the general direction of the teleporter stall.

I tore up from the sofa and jumped into the gathering lights. This time I remembered to shield my eyes inside my elbow against the blinding entry flash.

I popped from a white blast of light, mid-jump, my momentum intact. Shoes hit the floor, and only a frantic flurry of footwork and arm twirling kept me from falling flat on my ass. The ground was solid ice. I hissed a few choice curses under my breath. These idiots had selected the damn glacier stage.

Prince Oh-sorry-I-thought-you-were-a-woman Marth stood nearby, the tiniest frown of disapproval on his otherwise stoic face. He flourished the tip of his sword in the direction of his opponent, signaling that it was time to do what he’d summoned me here to do. The target: the space car racer in the skintight superhero outfit. Captain Falcon frowned at me, my presence noted. He had no time to jump clear before I scrambled into his personal space.

“Evening, captain.” I belted him with a straight right. Stupid, I know, talking when I should’ve been breathing. Something about the tournament had this effect on me. Hell, it stirred the blood of everyone involved. We constantly battled the temptation to get showy, though some fought the urge harder than others.

Falcon took a left hook on his ribs in manly, stony-faced silence. He ate the next three punches equally well. Before I could go for something more forceful, the Captain growled and kicked out at my leading knee. Fancy stepping got me clear of the snap kick. Unnecessary, but I'm set in my ways and dedicated to the art of boxing. And as I said, this was an event for showing off.

Falcon knew just as well as I the altered physics inside the arenas protected me from harm. Had that kick connected, his foot would've bounced right off my kneecap as if striking the side of a mountain instead of a man. I couldn’t blame him for trying; I'd have done the same if I stood in his place.

How I longed in that instant to stand in his place.

This was the assistant’s contract: dole out the hurt, take none in return. No real fights for us. No placement in any bracket either. This arrangement reduced me to an environmental hazard with a personality.

My distraction gave Marth ample time to saunter up behind Captain Falcon and slash his spine. The artificial physics made sure there was no blood or wound, only pain and a burst of kinetic energy lurching Falcon forward. I dashed in before he locked back onto Marth. My right surged up from the depths of hell, smashing my signature Star Uppercut dead center on Falcon's big chin. The captain rocketed up into the night sky until he vanished in a twinkle of starlight. I shuddered, feeling out of sync with reality.

“Game!” boomed the disembodied announcer voice.

I had struck the final blow of the match and not for the first time. Didn’t matter—to Marth the victory. He was the contender here; I was merely the humble assistant. Annoyance glittered in the Prince of Altea’s eyes, but he bowed politely to me all the same.

I’ve had worse jobs.

A crowd of spectators cheered, invisible like the announcer. In the past, I’d only heard them cheer, groan, or chant the underdog's name. Would the audience have laughed if I’d taken that spill on my rear? What kind of fight fan makes all that noise in hiding, never to emerge to harangue a fighter over a lost bet or beg for an autograph? Maybe it was all canned, but the Smashers swore it was real.

The match over, there was nothing else to do but wait for the teleport out. The auroras in the fake night sky caught my attention, no less beautiful for being manufactured. Time ran out. A flash of light engulfed me while an irresistible pull sucked me out of the arena.

I came out blinded. Once again, I'd forgotten to cover my eyes for the transfer. I stumbled out of the teleporter and fell onto a sofa to wait until my retinas settled down. Faint footsteps closed in—sandaled feet and rustling silk making just enough noise so I'd know she was approaching and from which direction.

"How's the third round treating ya, Lyn?" Lady Lyndis was her proper title, but she asked that her friends call her Lyn, so I did.

“It's no gentler on my eyes than yours,” she said.

“I know they got the technology to spare us the abuse. Least they could do is give us goggles or something.”

“Those who demand good service seldom repay it in kind.”

“Ain't that the devil’s own truth,” I said.

I finally forced my sore eyes open enough to look her way and suddenly they weren’t so sore anymore. The auroras couldn’t compete. She was wrapped in the robe that served her both as street clothes and war gear. Green hair the color of pine needles framed a face that could've launched every ship in the ancient world twice over. At her hip hung the long, slender sword that won more matches for the Smashers than my fists.

I caught myself staring and concentrated on pulling off my boxing gloves instead. Lyn stepped forward and helped untie the laces. Seeing her long fingers brushing over the gloves, I decided chewing the fat might make a better distraction. “When I'm in there, I never want to shut my lids for some reason. I forget to blink.”

“One of the first lessons of the warrior is to keep one's opponent in your sight, always. You were trained well.”

“By the best.”

I'm just a boxer, not a soldier, I almost said. She knew how I made a living. Even so, to her, boxers sounded like warriors in spirit, if not exactly in practice. Untrue in my opinion, but I liked the way she made me feel when she talked to me as an equal, so I didn't fight her on it.

Both gloves were off. Stuck for something to say, I blurted out, “Won many matches lately?” Wait, hadn’t I asked that already?

“Only two. Compared to all the other assistants, I am not selected often.”

“Same here. Seems like that Tingle jerk gets in on every other match. I envy him. Aw, you know what I mean.”

“I do,” said Lyn.

“He wouldn’t last a second in a real fight, poor sap. I wish they'd have ranks for the assistants, so the better fighter you are the more often you're picked. Not that I have anything against these gimmicky sidekicks we're stuck with, but sister, as Smashers we could’ve cleaned house.” I shut up. The words had sounded so good in my head a second ago, but they came out as whining. My brain and my tongue never agreed on anything.

Lyn nodded and fingered the grip of her sword. “That is my feeling as well. I would climb high in the rankings and bring honor to my homeland of Sacae if I were placed in the tournament. Perhaps next year.”

We strolled from the staging area lounge, chatting about past matches won and home world battles survived. A turtle and a mole ambled by on their hind legs, a hammer and a pickaxe hefted over their shoulders. They spoke to each other in a continuous stream of Japanese. At least it sounded like Japanese. Mr. Resetti was the mole’s name; I didn’t know the Hammer Brother. They worked as assistants, like me and Lyn. This time I managed to suppress a shudder. God. Even after a month of exposure, I'd failed to fully desensitize to the all-encompassing weirdness.

Lyn never gave them a second glance. If Resetti had stopped to say 'Hi,' she would’ve returned the greeting warmly and ask if he was well. I’d never seen the denizens of this nuthouse cause Lyn to so much as pause. If they bothered her at all, she never showed it to anyone.

Our small talk dried up fast, and there we were, ready to part ways at the entrance of the men’s locker room. Time to act before I could think about what I was doing and screw things up.

“You know,” I said, “throughout this entire tournament we only see each other between fights and group photo shoots.”

“Mmm.”

“I was thinking, since we've become friends and all—we could, ahh I dunno… go out and do something sometime.”

Her face stilled.

“Something?” she asked.

“Yeah. I was thinking we could catch dinner at one of the fancier places. Luigi's is the best in town. He cooks there when he’s not fighting. Then afterwards, we could...” And here I froze. Realization hit me like a haymaker in the gut. I had planned on asking her out to a movie. She's from another world. They might not have movies where she comes from. She might hate them, or they might freak her out. Hell, I hadn't patronized the complex's lone theater yet. Maybe its tech level was so advanced I’d be the one to freak out.

Her eyes searched my face. “We could what?” she asked. A hint of frost had crept into her voice.

I nearly panicked. Ashamed and feeling like a real bum, I hurried up and said, “Uhh, sorry, my train of thought sorta jumped its tracks there. I was going to suggest we could try out the video arcade, or maybe hit the Smash museum after we eat? We could go tonight while there's no more tournament matches left on the docket.” Who do you think blushed during this little exchange? Not Lyn, that’s for sure.

Lyn thought it over, then locked her gaze to mine. “I am sorry, but I've already made plans with another friend for tonight. It would be rude of me to cancel them. Thank you for the kind offer.”

I swallowed and forced myself to smile. “Yeah, no problem. Probably for the best. I didn't really have it all thought out anyways.”

She began to walk away, stopped, and looked back over her shoulder. Lyn grinned a small grin. “I am free tomorrow evening. I would love to tour the museum then. And maybe visit this… arcade you called it?”

“Perfect. Can do,” I said. My voice damn near squeaked under the weight of my excitement. We agreed to meet up by six. Lyn walked off and I ducked into the locker rooms. A minor miracle—the place was deserted. Didn't need anyone spying me prancing a merry jig between the lockers. I have an image to uphold, after all. I stripped off my boxing outfit and hit the sauna.

Finally, a _real_ date, I thought as I sweated out in the hot box. It had been too long.

I poured more water over the rocks. Wet heat clouded the sauna. My muscles remembered how to relax, and my mind emptied. The steam smelled of warm cedar wood. I was half-asleep when someone opened the door and let in a gust of cold air.

He was powerfully muscled, his towel tied around a stout barrel waist, and a mouth locked into a bullfrog's frown. His arms looked as strong as his frame, but they had a short reach. Opaque circle-framed goggles hid his eyes. This guy had been smart to buy those—the shaded lenses would've saved his eyes a lot of needless pain during teleportation.

I had seen him before, working as an assistant, but couldn't recall the name. Something about his presence set me on edge.

We sweated in silence for a while. The stranger sat still, faced forward, and didn’t look my way. I sensed he wanted to talk but was waiting for me to make the first move. It was getting harder and harder to stay relaxed with him in there. I felt crowded. I bunched up my towel in one hand and stood up to leave.

The stranger's voice stopped me at the sauna’s door. “Those were some good moves you showed off today. Damn impressive.”

I flinched. He was looking right at me now. I resented him for making me feel trapped, and my small talk quota for the day had run low. I shrugged, and said, “Sure. It was easy. Almost as easy as picking a fight. Nothing special.”

He fished a small hand cloth out from beneath his towel and wiped condensation from his goggles. “You finished that fight. And finishing a fight with Captain Falcon is never just 'nothing.'”

“You're kidding. The game was set against him. A cheap victory is no victory at all.”

He smiled at that, lips pressed tight against teeth.

“I've been rude. The name's Goroh. Samurai Goroh to most. Professional F-Zero racer, modest entrepreneur, and tournament assistant.”

“Mac.” I held out my free hand and he shook it. There was real strength in that hand, but he didn't try to crush mine. “Former WVBA world champ and tournament assistant.”

“You look bored, Mac.”

“Don’t beat yourself up about it. Not everyone’s a natural born conversationalist.”

He slapped the bench, threw back his head and laughed. “A sense of humor, too! I was right about you. What if I was to tell you I know a way to put those skills of yours to better use, and make a nice stack of credits while you're at it?”

“I'm no leg breaker.” Frustration hardened my voice. I had no more patience for manners. And neither did Goroh.

“Nothing like that. See, some of the tournament participants have grown bored with the official bouts. I'm talking prize fighting, Mac. Real fights that require real talent. No fake physics. The fighters use only what they bring into the ring with them. Don't give me that look. These battles are against the rules, sure, but in practice the authorities overlook it. Hell, they place some of the biggest bets.”

“I'm no damn pit fighter, either,” I said. The door knob was right next to my hand. Peace was only a turn of the wrist and a few steps away. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t reach out and twist it.

“You’ve got me all wrong.” Goroh held out an open hand in a plea for patience. “This stops short of blood sport. Most nights, anyways. Rules are agreed on for each match. We even have a referee.

“C'mon, Mac. Just by watching you move I can see you spent weeks training up for the Smash Tournament. And look where it's landed you. You're a special effect. A firework set off during halftime. A cameo for all the old school geeks to beat off to.

“I can line you up with a bout tonight. No cheating, no bullshit. You'll face a Smasher, and long odds—but I think you can pull through and make us both rich men.”

I shook my head. “I don't need this crap. I’m retired—just here on vacation.”

Goroh leaned in but stopped short of uppercut range. Voice lowered, he asked, “Retired? Vacation? Who you trying to convince with that shit, ‘cause it sure ain’t me. You may be past your prime, but if you really believed you had nothing left to prove, then what are you doing here? I doubt you need the credits. You signed up for the tournament because there's still something deep inside you that won't sit still. Banging against the walls, clawing at the door, howling for someone to let it out of the basement you locked it into. It wants—no, _you_ want a fight.”

He drew back, wiped off his goggles again, and resumed staring through the wall. “It's in west Smashville. Show up before nine if you change your mind.”


	2. Something Stupid

I had no words for Goroh. I left the sauna behind and returned to my room for a shower.

The skip dropped from my step. I scowled while staring off into a whole bunch of nowheres. The struggle to stop thinking about his offer made my head sore. Goroh read me for a dried up has-been, hoping I was desperate enough for one last swipe at an ill-defined, ephemeral glory. Hoping I’d do something stupid.

No way the offer was on the level.

Solitude proved unhelpful. The voice of Goroh wouldn't leave me alone. The almost-smile on his lips, telling me he thought I was up for it, and somehow saying between his words that I wasn't.

There was nothing left to do that night except hit the sack early. Fat chance. Too wound up inside. I went to work on the punching bag for a while. Took another shower. The bathroom mirror steamed up, giving me an out. But vanity never rests easy, so I wiped it off for a look.

I wasn't old, not really. Great shape, nothing sagged. Hard glint of an old hunger in my eyes. No desperation stamped there, surely? Did Lyn see what Goroh saw when she looked at me?

I decided to take a late supper, if only to kill time. There's a desolate vibe that settles late at night into 24-hour spaces, like this one, which makes me feel like I've broken into someone else's house after they've gone to bed. Tonight the cafeteria hall yawned empty except for a Dreamlander server on duty behind the counter, their single huge eye half closed as they fought in vain against an oncoming nap, and Samus Aran sans space armor. The bounty hunter reclined at a distant table in a dark corner where the lights had been switched off. She sipped coffee while the galactic empire equivalent of a smart phone bathed her face in a radioactive-blue glow, making her hard features look pale and alien. Samus never acknowledged anyone’s existence outside of a fight, so my brooding fit was safe from interruption.

I picked a seat facing the entrance and sat down with my tray of lukewarm Stroganoff slurry and cornbread-inspired bricks. The first bite of yellow bread material pasted to the inside of my mouth before I could swallow it, sparing me from a humiliating death by choking.

There was no avoiding it forever. On the wall behind me hung huge plasma screens for watching battles during the day, and mounted above the TVs was the scoreboard, its black span on fire with numerical constellations. No matter the hour, the scores never went dark.

After I don't know how long, I realized I wasn't eating, just studying my tray. I dumped dinner and shambled on over for a glimpse of the records. The score for yesterday’s matches blinked in green at the top. One more win awarded to Marth, Prince of Altea. His name, also in green letters, had proceeded to the next tier on the tournament bracket. Captain Falcon’s red letters glared from the loser’s bracket.

The board also displayed lifetime totals of Smasher wins and losses. These caught and held my attention. For some of the contenders wins and losses numbered in the hundreds. Since I had never been a Smasher, I had no numbers on display. I made do with closing my eyes. Memory lit up my record in ghost light. 57 wins: 33 knockouts, 22 TKO's, 2 by decision. 4 losses. The work of a lifetime.

Tomorrow, the numbers on this scoreboard would change. But mine, they’d stay the same, forever. No more losses, sure.

No more wins, either.

That old familiar quicksand feeling swallowed my guts. After I retired, I forced myself to stop dwelling on my record. Coming to the Tournament threw that resolve into the trash. The glitter, the grit, the burning numbers everywhere. Something about this place. It made me crazy. Or it drew those who were already crazy to itself. What did this say about me?

“I suppose thanks are in order.”

I turned around to find Marth and Meta Knight pondering the bracket. I rolled my shoulders. “Don’t mention it. You were lucky you drew me instead of the Demon, or Starfy.”

Marth nodded, his attention focused on the listing of his next match.

“Come the semi-finals, we’ll be rid of his kind,” Meta growled, flourishing a giant bat wing in my direction. “No more items dropping in to distract us from the fight. I wonder how you shall fare then, princeling.”

Marth’s lips curled up at the corners, but he said nothing. They continued their conversation without me. No one noticed me slipping away.

I returned to my room, disinclined to sleep. I put on my hat and coat and went out for a walk. I hoped it'd settle me down inside.

There was no “outside” to the tournament facility. Expeditions set out to peek at the reality beyond the walls came back with wild yarns of eternal planes of gray-white nothing, an all-encompassing blank where no substance broke a monotony somehow both infinitely deep and shallow as a parking lot puddle. The non-sight hurt brains and left witnesses with bug-eyed thousand-mile stares. Pretty soon everyone resumed obeying the rules about staying 'in-house.' The immense complex of buildings hosting the Tournament housed plenty of wonders for all, and enough breathing space to make sure no one felt trapped, much. Dozens of simulated environments, each with their own climate, time zones, and weather cycles, anticipated every expectation and met every need of body and soul, as well as keeping things fresh for hundreds of gladiatorial battles. Scaling snowy mountain slopes, tromping through cool desert nights, and wandering dank caverns I was soon glad I brought a coat.

I walked for a long while until, at last, my shoes trampled the manicured lawns of the Animal Crossing. What the hell, I thought. No harm in window shopping. I could benefit from a little homework. Watch and learn. Make an informed decision. Surely Goroh wasn’t as hard up as he put on for another fighter tonight.

Smashville spread out under a night sky of traced out constellations. Small town quiet brought back the feeling of being an invader in someone else's turf. One reason why I liked to live near the city. The freakish walking, talking animals were asleep in their houses or passed out and snoring on their front lawns, exhausted from a busy day of carpet swapping and antique trading. Animal Crossing people made my skin crawl more than any other inhuman species involved with the tournament. I thought of myself as a pretty open-minded and accepting guy, but living as a minority in the mix of this alien swarm for even a week had made me realize my tolerance had harder and narrower limits than I wanted to admit. Who was I to judge them as something unnatural? Even if looking at them made me think of Doctor Moreau, of things created to appease the depraved whims of a restless madman.

The sky platform used for official Smash matches hovered overhead, using technology I didn't understand to stay afloat. The platform loomed unlit and bare, but plenty of light spilled out from the windows of the big house in its shadow. The overly loud voices of intoxicated people swelled over cricket song. A cat and a sheep of the Crossing folk blathered with humans and sundry other species milling around on the spacious front lawn. More than one bottle passed from hand to claw and back again. A garbled roar broke out from the front door someone had left ajar. Sounded like the real party was inside.

The roaring kept on, reaching new heights in pitch. Something not human screamed in ecstasy, or maybe agony. The front lawn crowd went quiet for a moment, long or floppy ears perked towards the house for more. Hairs on the back of my neck stood up and tried to run away. I almost turned around right then.

Almost, but I didn't. I pushed my way to the door and stepped inside, ready to spectate.

In the living room they had snacks set out and a goomba in a bow tie tending bar at the kitchen counter. Music blared on the stereo, but did little to block out the growling and banging and cheering seeping up through the floorboards. Someone had strung up a Happy Birthday banner over the fireplace. Several sleepy party-goers lounged snoring or chatting on the mismatched furniture. No one paid me any mind. Things clicked into place for me then—this was all a flimsy front put up for plausible deniability in case tournament security came knocking. _No officer, it’s just my brother’s birthday and they’re having a really crazy dart board game downstairs. They always get carried away but I’ll go right now tell them to keep it down, sir._

The only person enjoying the spread was a pikachu wearing a sombrero, head down in the punch bowl and lapping loudly.

“Uh,” I started and froze. I was embarrassed to find myself in such a shady scene, asking an overgrown rat for directions. My powers of speech shut down for a moment while my mind grappled with the absurdity of it all.

The pikachu lifted her snout from the bowl, the yellow fur on her muzzle soaked a queasy shade of pinkish-orange. Her glossy black eyes regarded me for a long minute. Then she bent double, as if about to sneeze. I took a step back. Instead of blasting me with snot and fruit juice, an arc of static lightning leaped off her cheeks and struck a nearby switch disguised to look like a target stolen from the training facilities. The basement door swung open, and the pikachu pointed one paw at the steps leading down before bowing her head once more to the punch.

I made my way down a stairwell that plunged far longer and deeper into the earth than any normal home's basement would go. The air warmed and the clamor of battle grew louder with each step down.

Finally, a door rose from the gloom ahead, its edges on fire with orange light. It opened eagerly to my hand.

This was no ordinary cellar. Someone had paid good money to expand the floor space to the capacity of a small town sporting arena. Lamps swayed from a distant ceiling, casting down cones of harsh yellow light. Tiers of bleachers crowded three of the walls, fronted by plush VIP front row seats. Looming in the center of it all was the ring.

The place was packed. Its atmosphere smothered, humid from having passed through hundreds of lungs. Almost everybody who was somebody, and plenty who weren't, sat or stood screaming in the rickety stands. I spotted the wobbling peaks of green hair on the other side of the room and tracked them down to Dr. Wright, grinning big, both arms around a pair of beautiful women. Ganondorf lurked in the only unlit corner, the ghost light of his eyes giving him away. Wolf and Ike, the mercenary captains, sat ringside, differences forgotten as they talked and gestured at the ring, no doubt discussing strategy and what they’d do differently if they were in there. Laborers and techs from the tournament staff, groupies and super fans, human and alien alike, waved their bet vouchers and screamed encouragement or scorn.

And then the snarls and banging tore my eyes to the center of the room, to the fight. Once I looked, I couldn't look away.

Bowser, the mini-Godzilla, and Fox, the uhh... fox, were having it out. They had scratched each other up like Christmas hams. Red lines leaked all over their chests, arms, and faces. They flung droplets of blood with every move.

I called it a ring, but the platform had been fitted with a steel cage and these suckers had locked themselves in. It stood one story high, floored with metal plates that boomed and shuddered every time Bowser so much as shifted his weight.

The koopa king slumped forward, panting, as Fox danced around him. McCloud darted in and let loose a flurry of kicks to the king's pale belly. Bowser didn't so much as grunt. Instead, he lashed out, a brutal swipe carrying enough force to whack the head off a bear. Fox saw it coming and spun out of reach, but only just. A few orange hairs hung spinning in the roiled air. The cage curtailed a good deal of the mercenary's repertoire of aerial acrobatics. Over and over again, McCloud broke Bowser's defense to hit, bite, or score another notch in Bowser's hide, only to dart back before the king's heavy paw swept the air aside with a deafening whoosh. 

I'd seen this story play out before. This was a textbook out-fighter versus slugger match. If a smart guy like Fox had a firm grip on basic strategy (and I didn't see any other way Fox could've survived long as a mercenary otherwise) he would know that his best bet lay in controlling the pace of the bout from the beginning. Bare knuckle fighting demands iron endurance. As long as he avoided those monster swings until Bowser finally passed out, he was golden. On the other bare hand, one thing I've learned from binge watching wildlife documentaries is that reptiles can take a lot of abuse.

The end came sooner than I expected. Bowser waited until Fox edged in close for another shot. He reared back his massive head and inhaled deeply, as if preparing to blow out in one go all the candles on history’s largest birthday cake.

Fox recoiled. His boot caught the edge of a bent panel and he tripped backwards, cracking his rear against the metal flooring. "No fire! No fire!" he screamed.

Bowser leered toothily. The King of Koopas had stopped panting. Flouting the inverse-square law of gravity, Bowser threw his terrible bulk into the air with hideous ease, arcing with something like elegance through the empty space between cage bars above and ring below. He belly flopped down into a thunderous crash, dead center on Fox before the merc could scramble away. Bowser straightened up on his hind paws, squeezing the dazed Fox in a bear hug. The merc wheezed, muzzle open, tongue lolling, trying to take in oxygen that wasn't coming. Above the rising booing and hissing, I swore I heard a bone pop.

"Had you going there, didn't I?” Bowser asked. The king enjoyed a dark chuckle. “You thought I was gonna set you on fire? You'd only be so lucky!" Fox's eyes rolled back into his skull, showing their red stained whites.

"Ha!" Bowser spun and hurled Fox into the cage bars with all his might. Fox's body bounced off the steel and flopped bleeding on the floor. A pair of medics unlocked the cage door and rushed in to bear Fox away on a stretcher. Bowser roared and pumped his arms in the air.

I turned for the door, never more eager in my life to split on a joint. A meaty arm slapped across my shoulders.

"Hell of a fight. What'd ya think?" Goroh shouted above the din into my ear.

I spat out the thing that always arrives first to mind. The obvious. "Fox was too eager to stick the knockout. He should've held off for two more rounds, at least. Two more rounds would've rendered Bowser's exhaustion real."

Goroh took a long draw off a cigar and studied me from behind the goggles. Then he nodded. I walked towards the exit.

"Hey, hey! Where ya going?"

"I was almost tempted." The sight of Fox bleeding and beaten unconscious before a jeering mob had kicked the romantic notion of a surprise comeback right out of me. I pointed back to the abomination still dancing in the center of the ring. "I tried to tell you once before. You might be a ring leader in this circus, but I’m no clown." I thought of the bestial nature of many contenders here, and added, “Not a lion tamer, either.”

Goroh sputtered and threw his arms out, hands open, towards the cage as if to protest what a big, tragic misunderstanding this had all become. "And I told you once before, this ain't the kind of fight I'd sign you up for. No man with any sense steps into the ring with Bowser or these other monsters. I'm talking a real boxing match, Mac. Hell, even in that fight Bowser was prohibited to use weapons, including his fire breath.”

“That's not what I saw.”

“He was just faking Fox out. Did you see any flames, huh? For you, WVBA rules all the way."

"Ain't interested."

Goroh slapped a package to my chest. I tore it open, ready to rip apart whatever I found inside and throw it back in his face. What greeted my eyes pulled me up short. A pair of green boxing gloves, pristine and smelling like new shoes. I was certain that if I put them on, they'd fit perfectly—a scene right out of a fairy tale for tough guys.

"Stop telling me who you're not,” my would-be fairy godmother said. “Put on the gloves and show us all who you are."

I was close to the stairwell, yet a universe away from stepping into it. Under my coat the heat of the basement roasted me, turning my shirt dark and sticky with sweat. It was hard to breathe. The weight of Goroh's expectations pressed in on me like steam. My thoughts roiled in a cloud of déjà vu, the scene so familiar, the offer the same. This time I sensed I was down for the count. Witnessing Bowser’s victory had twisted me up inside. I looked back at the bloodied ring as if searching for help—for a reminder. Maybe to convince myself not to do something stupid.

The ring crew had begun disassembling the cage. A few in the crowd stood up to stretch or fetch another beer. That's when I spotted her. Lyn.

She had seen me too. I couldn't move to shut my gaping mouth. She sat in the bleachers beside a large man concealed under a greatcoat. A wide-brimmed hat hid the man's face in shadow, so that I caught only a gleam of dark glasses as he turned to lean close and whisper to Lyn, drawing her attention away from me. His gloved hand squeezed her shoulder. Lyn did not retreat from that hand.

Then the dark glittering of those lenses turned my way, cold and unflinching. Only a vague outline of a head was visible, not enough to recognize anyone by. Where had I seen that icy gaze before, so familiar, yet so strange? Lyn spoke to him, her eyes avoiding me.

All of a sudden, I really wanted to do something stupid.

I started working the laces open on my new gloves. Goroh kept a stone face, brow beaded with sweat.

"WVBA rules. A human opponent. Give me time to dress."

"You got it, Mac."


	3. A Real Mouthful

"Gentlemen, here are the rules.” A civil engineer, Dr. Wright spoke with a practiced patter, voice crisp and clear. Standing tall at four and a half feet (not including hair) he had his bow tie tied on straight and his three-piece suit perfectly pressed. He was happy to ditch the arm candy for a chance to show off his officiating skills before an audience.

“There will be absolutely no hits below the belt, eye gouges, head-butting, or biting.”

My opponent slouched against the ropes in the opposite corner and tried to pick his nose while wearing boxing gloves. With the other mitt he tugged the waistband of his trunks back up over his plumber’s crack.

“Regulation footwear only: no springs or rocket engines or pumps in the soles.”

He didn't strike me as a man overflowing with competitive spirit. If he was hungry for anything, waffles were a safer bet than victory.

“Possession of items of a metaphysical nature, or active nanomachine colonies, external or internal, will result in instant disqualification.”

While working matches as an assistant, I’d twice spied him in action. What I saw of his fighting style then hadn’t impressed. All that ass shaking and spinning around—the guy seemed to lack direction in the arena, unless the chance came to lock lips around the random food items sprinkled into tournament fights. Alas, there was no time to study recordings of his bouts.

“The same goes for any and all intercessions via mortal, spiritual, divine, or unclassified extra-dimensional agents.”

The man in the opposite corner belched, a long one, working several bars of a melody into it. Wright was forced to pause his recitation.

"How about ordering takeout, eh? That against the rules?" my opponent asked.

Wario. Why this grease blob? Everything from his bulging, nightmarish proportions to his pointy ears left me unconvinced he was the _human_ challenger Goroh had promised. For crying out loud, his mouth ran the width of his head!

“Never considered it, but I'll answer with a firm yes. It's against the rules." Wario groaned and Wright ignored him. "If you go into a clinch, I will break it. This bout is for twelve, three-minute rounds, with a one-minute break between each.

“Are you both ready?” Wright asked.

"Yes," I said.

Wario snarled. "Let's-a go already. I gotta headache from skipping supper."

Wright hopped with unsuppressed excitement. "Gentlemen, touch gloves, then move to your corners. At the sound of the bell, come out swinging. Let’s keep it clean!"

Wright made a grand chopping motion with one arm and backed away through the ropes. While the fight was in progress he would stand on the outside lip of the ring in the style of WVBA referees.

I stuck my mitts out to tap Wario’s paint can-sized purple gloves. Wario sneered, swiveled around, and stomped back to his corner.

The boxing ring itself was a regulation squared circle. No gimmicks, no high-tech embellishments. Goroh had come through on that much, at least. Workers had cleaned up the mess, but the smell of blood lingered, stirred in with the musk of cigar smoke and cheap beer.

Our match drew a larger crowd than the Bowser vs. Fox fight. Well, why not. A nobody was challenging a Smasher. This was a novel situation for them, or so Goroh claimed. “I know fight fans. Many of them would never admit it, but few things are more appealing to buzzards than the prospect of slaughter.”

Lyn and her mystery friend continued to watch from the stands.

The bell rang three times. My shoes scraped over the canvas before the last vibrating knell faded to silence. I rushed in, jabbed his guard once to bait him, then paused, allowing Wario the chance to throw the first real punches. Wario was at least a foot shorter than me, granting me the height advantage—an advantage I was sorely tempted to press. But no, patience. I needed him to make the first moves. I would study his style, analyze his methods, search for weaknesses.

Wario yawned and began rummaging around in his shorts. I heard the telltale crinkle of a food wrapper. Laughter rippled through the stands. This bout was fast becoming a comedy sketch. Fine, then. I'd seize the initiative and draw this fat oaf out.

I gave his enormous head the ol' one-two. The fleshy impacts reverberated off the walls, strangely loud. Wario reared back, glove hauling out from his trunks with a wrapped snack cake dangling from its grip. The crowd held its mirth in, waiting to see what would happen next. Wario grunted in disgust and shoved the treat back into its hiding place. Hands free for boxing, he sneered and advanced on me, gloves raised.

I jabbed high and low, searching for defensive weak spots and gauging his reaction time. I took harder swings when I could get away with them.

King Hippo had nothing on this guy. Wario blocked me almost every time with a mocking patience you would've never guessed he possessed if you'd seen him storm the cafeteria lunch line. My touches that got through he deigned not to notice.

I relented for a moment, the fight’s first sweat drying off my shoulders. Time to give him another shot and see what he could do. Figured I'd watch close and see how he'd open up.

Wario stepped up and widened his grin until it reached his ears. "Now it's my turn, ehhh?"

He telegraphed his right so far in advance I had all night to sidestep it. His left came faster. Much faster. I raised my guard and just barely deflected his boulder of a fist. Might as well have blocked a battering ram. A pained gasp welled against the back of my mouth guard. The force of the blow staggered me back a step.

Wario swung low and I jerked my guard down over my body on reflex. His fist plowed in, crushing the gloves against my stomach. The air rushed from my lungs with an embarrassing _fwoougghhh_ as I spat the mouth guard onto the canvas. It was a miracle I didn't spill supper all over his arm. Wario chortled and followed up by sinking a second brutal hook square on my diaphragm.

My legs wanted to buckle and drop me away from the hurt. For the first time in a long time, animal panic set its millions of rabbit teeth nibbling into my spine. Wario pulled back to wind up for another blow. The hollow his cannon ball of a mitt left behind flooded with pain almost as intense as the punch itself. I hung there, hunched over, jaw dropped and drooling. Wario grunted in satisfaction and leisurely swung an uppercut into the underside of my jaw. My teeth slammed together with an audible clack. The blow straightened me back up to standing.

Wario went to work on my face next. Taking his time, he jabbed left-right, left-right. I struck back, desperate to break his rhythm by landing a hit around his eyes. Wario took it on the face without so much as blinking. "Ha!" He came back with a right backhand cross I was too dazed to dodge. I don’t remember what happened next.

Don't remember the moment I came back, either. Wright stood over me, counting: “Five… six… seven….” The crowd was making all kinds of noise. Goroh screamed from my corner. Someone had plugged my ears with cotton, and my vision was blurry as if I'd been crying. Up floated the old number into the watery haze, each numeral burning yellow like the glare thrown off by Wario's threads. 57-4. A piece of me, still too young to take anything lying down, grew enraged as the phantom number increased to 57-5. All the rest of me wanted to remain laid out on that nice, soft canvas and hurt with my eyes closed. That would be easy. It would feel so good. But that damn rebel piece wouldn’t leave the matter be.

I disdained the support of the ropes, knowing if I grabbed them I might not let go until Wright counted ten. Wario laughed the whole time, pouring a bellyful of scorn down my back. The sight brought back old memories of past conquests: Bald Bull and Soda Popinski. Those guys had enjoyed many a chuckle while their opponents squirmed bloodied and broken at their feet.

The soles of my shoes finished reacquainting themselves to the plane of the ring when the ref called out “Nine.” Wright checked I was steady and clear of eye, then signaled for us to continue.

My dukes back up, my feet moving again, I gave Wario a saucy wink. That shut him up. I wanted Wario to know I’d gotten the message. I was awake now.

I had juked a few of Wario's sloppier punches when the bell rang and spoiled my newfound second wind. Back in the corner, Goroh swabbed the swelling jaw with ice wrapped in a damp towel, asking, "The hell is the matter? Stop wasting time and lay into this toothy goblin already! And it'd behoove you not to walk into any more of those punches," and other such sage advice. Surprising Goroh even knew the word behoove.

The weaker part of me which had longed to nap on the ring canvas set the inside of my skull humming with the whining it wished to render up to Goroh. He's not human. You promised this'd be fair! I kept my mouth shut. The time for recompense would come later.

I took a mouthful of water, swished it around, and spat. If Doc Louis, my late trainer were here, what might he have to say? He'd probably dust off one of his favorite slogans, _Dance like a fly, sting like a mosquito._ Not that great with similes, was old Doc.

Wario leered at me from across the ring. A dirty, knowing smile played over his fat lips as if he'd seen the way this would end. Maybe he had.

From my corner, the future stayed murky. I had yet to find Wario's 'solution.'

Way I see it, boxing works like this: all boxers have certain patterns inherit to their fighting style, a submerged logic or philosophy to the way they approach the challenge of knocking a man down while avoiding having their own skull caved in. Even staying completely unpredictable makes one, well, predictable after a while. For every attack—a counter. For every guard, gaps open up because fists and legs can't be everywhere at once. And for every body, no matter how fit, there's a weakness. A glass jaw, or maybe a broken hand that hasn't fully healed. Other times it’s a signature punch easy to counter. Or a boxer who can't keep hold of their temper's reins. The better the fighter, the better they conceal these critical vulnerabilities. So my mentor taught me, so I pass his wisdom onto you.

Doc Louis called this intersection of weakness and predictability a fighter's 'solution.'

Perhaps I had been sloppy and allowed Wario to spot such an opportunity to 'solve' me. More likely he reckoned all he had to do was bludgeon me with his inhuman might for another round or three and to hell with expertise. If I couldn't solve the algebra of his assault, that's what would happen.

Seconds away from the end of the break, I asked Goroh for a new mouth guard and that’s when it hit me. Wario wasn’t wearing a protector for his teeth. Maybe I'd called it right when I compared him to King Hippo. As it had been with the King, the only chance now was to hit him where it hurt. The one legal place I had left to try.

The bell chimed three short notes. Wario strutted for the crowd.

"Don't lose," Goroh begged me.

"I'll take him."

Goroh crossed his arms, frown deepening, and said nothing.

The distance between us closed. Wario was eager for a quick win. I was in a hurry to test out my theory.

Up close he smelled like old cheese and garlic. I hooked him in the belly, and it proved as useless a gesture as I'd feared. Too much padding down there for him to feel it. I sent a flurry of rabbit punches into Wario’s midriff. My fists met the fat with watery slapping noises, all of them powerless against his armor. Made a big show of letting my swings go wide and wild, as if I were losing my temper.

Wario took the bait. His jaws gaped wide to laugh at my clowning. I plunged my knuckles into his open mouth. My fist missed the teeth I aimed for. My arm sank into his mouth up to the elbow, socking him right on his uvula. Wario's laughter died on an abrupt brass note.

His choppers closed on my arm. I pulled free before he could bite it off. Even so, I escaped scathed by several long teeth marks, puffing up red and angry.

“Cut it out!” Dr. Wright yelled. “I see you pull that stunt again and you’re disqualified.”

I shrugged. I had only meant to pop him in the kisser, not rap my knuckles on his tonsils.

Wario used both gloves to seal off his violated mouth, leaving the rest of him open. I lanced his blocky chin with a hard right. His eyelids fluttered. Wario was too stunned to block me, so I hammered a few more home, pivoting my hips to throw more power into every punch. Tears of pain leaked out from the sides of Wario's eyes. King Hippo, you magnificent bastard, I read your book!

Finally, he jumped back and put up his guard. The sneers and the mugging for the crowd stopped. Face flushed red in rage, Wario charged, arms scything for my head as fast as he could sling his jiggling guns. I ducked every punch.

And I thought, No, big man. That isn't good enough anymore. This is Little Mac, world champion, slayer of giants you're fighting now. This is what I love most. This is me.

The fat man’s swings tore the air, each blow too vicious to consider stopping with any part of my body. I waited for the opening, just like I used to do against the heavyweights of WVBA’s World Circuit. Let them rain down a hailstorm of hurt as I float untouched like a mote of dust in the breeze. They always blew themselves out in the end. Eventually, Wario would tire or make a mistake.

It didn’t take long.

Wario belted out a looping left hook that missed me and left him staggering for balance. I rushed the breach in his defenses. Three hard rights to the point of the chin and Wario dropped his jaw to yell. I socked him in the teeth. His lips mashed against the spotless enamel. He even bit his own tongue in the bargain.

Eyes bulged out, his face purpled until it matched the color of his nose. Cocky, I risked opening up to slam a swift left cross over that great prune-shaded beak. Wario tumbled back, increasing my height advantage. I hammered his huge head without pity or mercy. He might’ve punched me in the gut at any time, but he kept reeling away from the punishment instead, face bloodied.

The sight of blood impelled me to press the attack. Before I could plant another punch, Wario slid down to the canvas like a bag of loose gravel tipped over. He didn’t even twitch while Wright counted to ten.

I stood there, blood smeared on my gloves, eyes wide, blowing like a horse fresh off a gallop. I had won, but the result made no sense. Even after the big hurt I’d put on him, Wario had gone down and stayed down too easily for a man commanding superhuman strength. Mere mortal heavyweights waded through worse all the time.

I wasn’t the only one who had a problem with the result. The crowd wasted little time in rising from their seats and mobbing the exit. Disgust soured more than a few faces. Whispered conversation rose to murmurs. A few people began to boo. Dr. Wright didn’t bother to lift my arm or announce a verdict. He got out of the ring and got out of town. Goroh had vanished like smoke. If this was victory, then why did it feel like Wario's fist still danced the rumba on my stomach? The whole scene took on the surreal quality of a social-anxiety nightmare. If I looked down, I was sure I’d discover I’d forgotten to wear shorts.

Ice water pouring down my back, I remembered Lyn was watching. Afraid to meet her gaze, yet compelled by the need for assurance or a clue as to what was going on, I raised my eyes and found only the glint of eye glasses and impenetrable shadows staring out from beneath the hat of Lyn's mystery date. I might as well have been staring into the depths of my own soul, the dark places no man wishes to pry if he doesn't have to, for how little I saw of the stranger's face. Lyn had left the room.

I left the basement with the last of the crowd, looking at no one else.

The impromptu dressing room was a bedroom on the second floor. In no mood for company, I hid away in a guestroom across the hall and changed back into my street clothes. Wario's bite marks on my arm were hot and stinging. Maybe Doc Mario would have mercy and get out of bed to hose me down with peroxide. I did not know what to think or feel. More than anything, I wanted to slink away before anyone else would notice my presence. Of all the endings for this fight I'd imagined, this matched none of them, not even the unhappy ones. Defeated in victory.

Minutes later, the racket of the disgruntled crowd loitering downstairs dwindled to quiet. Through the open window blew the night breeze, and then raised voices, breaking the resettled silence.

Familiar voices.

I tracked them to a nearby orchard. Two shadowed figures lurked under the pear trees, shouting and growing louder by the syllable.

"In all my long career, that was the least convincing fall I've ever seen. You get half."

"My precious mouth parts didn’t get half-damaged, you half-rate loser! I get full or I talk."

"No one cares what a lying slob like you has to say about anything. They'll—"

Sure enough, there stood Goroh and Wario, hashing it out. I stepped into the moonlight and cleared my throat. Goroh's head turned at the sound. He didn’t look happy to see me. Wario sneered his contempt, snatched a clinking sack of coins from Goroh’s hand, and crashed off into the undergrowth. Goroh spun to follow him, but I grabbed his arm and jerked him back around.

"Hold on. What the hell happened back there?" I asked.

"Figure it out, champ." He took a moment to straighten his vest. A roll of cash appeared, street magician smooth, in his fingers. He held it out to me. "I suppose you earned this. I can afford to be generous. I bet on you to win, after all."

The breeze kicked up again, ripe with the sweet smell of rotting pears.

I didn’t take the money. "Why?"

" _Why?_ " Samurai Goroh chuckled. "I don't suffer needless risks when my money is on the line, that's why. After seeing the way you nearly folded in the first round, I gave the signal. Not my fault Wario's such a poor actor."

"They all think I'm crooked now. They think I'm a bum! You screwed over my name."

"Risk is a part of doing business. Everyone gets screwed eventually. Maybe if you hadn't choked in the first five seconds, you could’ve kept your rep intact and taken home your share of the pot."

Goroh began to brace for my move. Faster than he expected, my arms shot out and snagged two fistfuls of shirt. Goroh breathed hard and heavy, furious. His hand darted under the vest.

I yanked him close, reared my head back and smashed the top of my forehead right onto the soft part of his nose. It flattened with a wet crack. Warm blood splattered my face. Goroh groaned and went limp. I let him drop and stood on his arms, pinning them to the ground. He lay there, exploring a new way to breathe, oozing face glistening black and silver in the moonlight.

In the vest I found a fancy laser pistol, the kind they sometimes materialized into Smash matches so the contenders could play space cadet, blasting each other with harmless 'death' rays. This gun would fire the real thing, and looked just like the harmless tournament props. Clever. I took the raygun apart in two pieces and threw the halves in opposite directions to tumble away into the night dark grove.

No goons stepped out from behind the trees to stop me. It hadn't occurred to me until this moment that Goroh might have connections, perhaps some muscle on retainer—even here in this sheltered other-world which was home to none of us. Perhaps reprisals would come later. Too late now for second thoughts.

I swallowed the fears rising like alcohol vapors at the back of my throat and kept my voice as cold and as hard as my wrath. "You’re going to help me fix this. I want a rematch."

Goroh spat blood on my shoe. "Wario will never fight you again. Not in a fair match."

"Then get me someone else. No freak shows or super powers. No fixes. A real boxing match.”

“Not possible.”

“Not listening. Set whatever odds you want. Two nights from now. Or else I’ll drag you back into the ring and you’ll wish it was Bowser you were fighting instead of me."

He nodded. Unwilling to press my luck, I stepped off him and got out of there.


	4. Equines and Questions of Pretension

No goons waited for me back in my room. I showered off the blood, but the bruises and the sore head remained. My middle didn’t feel so hot, either.

I rued my request for a rematch two nights from now. Should've asked for two months.

Four aspirins later, I lay in bed, mulling over my newly-found problems. It was an unpleasant process. Place one trouble under focus and it underwent mitosis, splitting into two new problem children. Would they cancel my contract with the tournament? Goroh would get back at me—it was only a question of when and how. Worst of all, tonight was my date with Lyn.

I buried my face in a pillow and groaned at the thought. Maybe she’d see through Goroh’s lies and not assume the worst about me, as the rest of the crowd had.

Yeah, maybe when Goombas learned to fly.

I tried to imagine the things she would say.

* * *

I arrived at Luigi’s ten minutes before six. The dining room hosted a diverse crowd and they occupied most of the table seats. A private booth in the back had been reserved for me. It was good to be a friend of the Weegi.

Several diners stared at me as the maître d' escorted me to my table. Most of them began gesturing and talking in a low, conspiratorial manner as we passed them by. I pretended not to notice.

Time slipped away as I fumbled with the menu.

“Hail and well met, Mac.” Her approach had been silent.

I felt shame, then, for harboring even the slightest doubt she’d show. Lyn always did what she said she would do. People often learned that about her in short order.

I strove to sound casual with, “Hey, glad you made it.”

Lyn arrived wrapped in a set of Sacae robes I hadn’t seen before—deep green, lined with crimson dyed wool and patterns sewn with gold thread. Not her usual colors, and she looked all the more beautiful for the change. Her hip stood bare of sword. I had never seen Lyn without it. This had to be a good sign.

My fellow assistant settled into the booth, sitting directly opposite of me. Her expression held no accusation, or much of anything else. This was the stoic mask she wore for uncertain situations—a product of Sacaen culture, or just a quirk of her personality—I didn’t know which. I decided to ask.

As I opened my mouth, a waiter sashayed over to take our drink orders. He was a toadstool man from the Mushroom Kingdom, one of many who worked service jobs in the tournament facility. Under his mushroom cap he looked comical standing beside Lyn. She towered over him even while seated. Like Lyn, he affected a blank face, but in this he was an amateur competing alongside a master. When he looked my way, lurking there in the crinkled skin at the corners of his eyes I caught the telltale sneer of contempt. Had to be. He plunked down our waters and set pen to ticket pad. I ordered the fried ravioli appetizer and a lime Italian soda; Lyn chose the house ale.

And then we were alone once more.

I'd forgotten what I meant to ask a second ago. A silence poured into our booth and filled the space between us like the ocean flooding in dark and cold through the breached hull of a wrecked ship. I had to look up from the menu, had to stop being afraid before we both were in over our heads.

“What do they like to eat where you come from?”

She looked at me. She kept on looking at me.

“It would help me get, uh, a better idea of what kinda food you'd like. I'm guessing they don't have Italian food where you're from and this stuff probably seems strange and all. But it’s real easy. As long as you order some kind of pasta with cheese and sauce on it, you're safe. 'Course, you could go with the fish. Seafood's always a sure bet....”

My voice trailed off; the words sank and drowned. I felt like an idiot—well, more like fresh layers of stupid compacted over an established bedrock of idiocy.

“Our staples depend on various grains grown in Sacaen prairies. Meat we have seldom, for game is scarce and hunting in the mountains might draw the attention of bandits. If a horse is injured and can no longer run, we divide the flesh among friends and family.” Lyn looked down at the specials card and frowned. “I don't suppose horse is on the menu, is it?"

“The lasagna. Definitely recommend the lasagna,” I mumbled.

She shoved the menus aside and looked back up at me. “It does not matter, Mac. I’m not hungry. I did not come here to eat.”

The menu card creased between my fingers. Where were those damned drinks? My throat had dried out in a rush.

There was no avoiding this forever. “You came to ask about last night.”

“I came to warn you. Cry off tomorrow’s fight.”

“What?” The lines I had memorized for this moment fled my brain, never to return.

“Don’t go,” she said, an iron tone of command in her voice. “Your health, perhaps even your life, will be in danger.”

I swallowed hard. If only I had time to breathe. “Lyn… how do you know about my arrangements with Goroh?”

“Everyone knows, Mac. He has not been shy in spreading word of the upcoming fight.”

Of course. For scum like Goroh, profit came before revenge. And no matter how things shook out, he'd likely get both. I win, he rakes in the cash as promoter of the bout. I lose, he still makes bank while my reputation goes down the toilet. I die in the ring, Goroh could shirk suspicion of foul play by claiming he had a strong motive for keeping his new moneymaker alive, and hey, it was the other fighter who punched me to death. Accidents happen.

“Has he announced my opponent?"

"No, but Goroh has promised a great warrior of irreproachable integrity."

"Do you know who I’m fighting?”

“I… cannot say.” Lyn turned her face from me. It was an unusually vulnerable gesture from her, and the sight of it turned me cold inside. Couldn’t say, or wouldn’t?

I sat there with no clue what to do next. Lyn had no patience for my silence.

She leaned back and studied me through hooded eyes. “Have you ever taken a life before, Mac?”

The question threw me further off guard. “What?”

“Have you ever slain another human, or killed a being that can think and feel as a human does?”

Whatever remained of my hard case act crumbled to dust and blew away. “No. And I never want to.”

Her fingers tapped the table. “Many of us gathered here have walked beside death, and at times made death our living. Those dear to us often perish before our enemies do. Jump into the midst of our personal demons and you might well tumble out a corpse.”

“Are you saying someone's going to try to kill me?''

''I'm saying I don't want to see you die. Especially over a silly matter of pride.''

I began to shiver. My head flushed with heat. An old hurt reared up from the pit of my roiling stomach and rolled its muscular shoulders. For much of my career, I'd endured the doubt of others and their gleeful incredulity. _What a runt, does it think it has a chance in the ring? He got lucky once, but this is the big time and now he'll see what it's really about. Is this pencil neck geek for real? Do they fix these matches?_

Once, just once, I wanted to know how much a man needed to accomplish before people took me seriously.

Lyn continued on, oblivious to how her words tore me open. “I was wrong, what I’d said before about boxing.”

“About boxers being warriors in spirit?” I asked. It was a guess. I found it hard to concentrate on the memories of older and more pleasant conversations.

Lyn nodded. “That was naïve of me. Boxing may be rough and bloody, but it is a sport before all else.”

Keeping a tight lockdown on my stoic veneer, I hit back. “I never claimed otherwise.”

Lyn breathed deep. When she spoke again, she did so with the patience she might normally reserve for stubborn children. “I have failed to marshal my words into some semblance of coherence. Allow me to begin again. Mac, there are two realms of existence to consider here. There's the world of sportsmanship, with its humane safety measures, points, prizes, and general respect between contestants. A wholesome world, when it hasn't fallen to corruption. And then there's the world below. This is the realm of pain. Of war and fear and grim necessity, where wounds may stop bleeding but they never quite heal. It's the gray kingdom where dwell the damned who have killed and will kill again. You belong to the former world, as I have been an unwilling subject of the latter. As have many of the Smash fighters. Goroh and the underground gladiatorial business in which he participates straddles the borders of these two worlds. It is a crossroads where the athlete and the manslayer perchance meet. I fear you may not survive such an encounter with someone who hails from a world similar to mine own.”

There it was. From a woman I respected—more than respected, and she'd not only trashed me but tossed my whole mode of existence onto the garbage heap. Did she already know me so well? Had she broken me down, cataloged my weak points in a single glance as I had done to so many others?

Damnedest thing was, Lyn was almost right. Boxing can be life or death but it's not supposed to be. Lyn, Fox McCloud, Marth, and dozens of others were veterans of lethal combat on a scale I've never known personally. They endured wars. Often won them. I played by rules, respected regulations, and stuck to a crude kind of honor. Did I really have a place among these war heroes of legend? To set myself against their best and claim a champion's place among them? I had until this moment found it pleasant to think: hell yes I do. Lyn had once seemed to think so as well.

I welcomed the rising tide of anger and righteous indignation. It gave me something to hold on to, gave me strength. Rage granted permission to stop thinking over what she was saying.

“In my world, they train boxers like me to beat the other guy until he falls down. As fast and brutal as necessary, because the sooner he’s down the less chance there is for an accident. Quick ends make the match safer for both fighters. But not every guy is skilled enough to pull it off. Boxers have died in the ring.” Teeth gritted, I couldn't hold back a sneer. "Fighters use their fists to stamp a deep hurt in your flesh, your bones, and the dent they leave doesn't always spring back up." I tapped a finger against my temple. “Some guys get the kind of injuries that never heal. They stay in the game too long and get knocked about until their brains fracture to mush. The battle’s real enough to them. Don't lecture a boxer about permanent consequences. We already know too damn well.”

Lyn wasn’t fazed. She shook her head. “You are a good man, possessing a noble heart. There is no dishonor in what you do. If only the arenas of my world did not trade blood for gold, but rather prized feats of skill and athleticism as your society does. That is why you must stay away from Samurai Goroh’s arena and remain within the bounds of the Smash Tourney. Your sport of boxing, for all the art and skill it requires, is only a tame shadow cast forward through time by the martial arts of antiquity, when warriors used their bare hands to slay. The Smash Tournament is the same, a shadow play cast by the firelight of wars past. When we step into the Smash matches, we become mummers playing at knights, well padded as we charge astride stuffed horses, tilting blunt and hollow lances at scarecrows of light. Outside the Smash Brothers playpen, we are killers playing killers’ games. Enter you into Goroh's world—a warrior's world, you'll ride against hardened killers with naught in your hand but a paper sword and a shield of foam.”

What she said shook me. I raged back, spittle flying with the conviction that only comes when in his deepest core, under all the emotion and rationalizations, a man knows he's wrong about something.

“I don’t know what point you’re trying to make here, but you’re wrong about me. You think what I do in the ring is an act? When I step into the squared circle, I’m as serious as the edge of your sword.” My throat tightened. I kept talking to keep it loose. “My wins are real. My losses are real, too. What happened last night was a sham. Goroh worked a deal with Wario behind my back. The fat bastard took a fall for money.”

Lynn took a long sip of ice water. My onslaught left her untouched. Perhaps she had expected me to say all this.

Beyond the private booth, diners sat in fine chairs and high booths upholstered with purple satin. They chatted and laughed and ate, seeming almost to float in pools of soft light. Each table an island universe distant beyond possibility of contact, where surely they had their own troubles and shames, yet they looked happy and I was trapped a million light-years away in hell.

“I want to believe you, Mac. But it doesn’t matter if I trust you or not.”

“It matters to me.” After the words left my mouth, I realized I believed them.

“Mac, you have nothing to fight for here.”

“And that's what you don't understand. I’ve got plenty of things to fight for. None of which is money, in case you were wondering.”

I sensed the last inch of an irreplaceable opportunity slip from between my fingers. Or maybe I had only ever maintained a grip on such a thing in my dreams.

Lyn had spoken nothing but the truth. I no longer harbored any doubts about this. Then why....

“Lyn, I’m accepting this challenge. It’s selfish, and stupid. But sometimes a fast death is better than the alternative. It’ll kill me slow if I let Goroh’s lie stand. After tomorrow night, my score’s going to be 58-4 or 57-5. Whether I'm alive afterwards to see either number change doesn't change the truth of it. And anyone there who’s watching, I’ll leave no doubt that I’m for real.”

Why was I still throwing her warnings back into her face?

The other diners stole glances at our booth. I hadn’t realized I’d raised my voice. The waiter brought over our drinks and the ravioli. I drained my soda in one long pull. Lyn poked at the base of her ale glass. The breaded pasta smelled wonderful. It might as well have been a plate of cigarette butts and chewed gum. Hunger had become an alien concept to me.

Lyn spoke again, her voice softer. "Does this still hurt?" She pointed to the rainbow of bruises on my face.

I shook my head, happy for the change in subject. “Doc Mario said I’ll be almost one hundred-percent tomorrow.”

“That is good to hear.”

The liquid silence sloshed around us again. This time I was treading the cold waters hard enough to hold my face above the surface. “I’d like to see you again. After all this clowning around is over and done with.”

Lyn didn’t even flinch. “No.”

“I forget. You already have a ‘friend.'”

Lyn stiffened, then slid out of the booth. “I have many friends, yes. I thought I had a true one in you.”

The words jumped from my throat, hot and bitter. “You thought wrong. I’m just an old fake, remember? You wouldn’t wanna make the mistake of settling for less. Not when only the company of a true, cold-blooded killer will do.”

Lyn paused. “Since coming to this tournament, I have made many mistakes. Forgive me. I wish you luck in your upcoming battle.” She bowed and left the restaurant.

I gazed off into empty space while the fried raviolis cooled to cardboard stiffness. Why had I gone and said all those things? She'd seen me in full, saw that I was all show, and now wanted a refund on the ticket.

“Will monsieur be having anything else?” The toadstool waiter crept up from behind. There was a sneer in his voice, but his poker face remained impeccable. I turned and stared him in the eye, and took a nasty pleasure in watching him back away.

I threw a wad of small bills down on the table. “Don’t spend it all in one place. And by the way, monsieur is a French word. You’re working at an Italian restaurant, moron.”

I left Luigi's without a glance back, weirdly proud of the whispers and looks aimed my way.

* * *

  
"You got me a fight?"

"I got you a fight."

Samurai Goroh cracked the flat line of his lips into a Cheshire Cat smile. Between the pile of bandages covering the nose and black mirror goggles concealing the eyes, Goroh looked sinister no matter what expression he wore. "And before you start leveling accusations, yeah, he's human, same as you. But I have to warn you, he's got every advantage. He's faster, hits harder, and has a skull almost as thick as mine. He outclasses you in every way."

"Wouldn’t be the first time," I muttered.

Goroh reached out to place a hand on my shoulder, thought better of it, and withdrew. "You probably won’t believe me, but... I really want you to win this fight, Mac."

“You ain’t kidding? Do you think I’ll take your mystery man?”

Goroh laughed, an ugly sound. It made me miss Wario’s guffaws.

“Hell no. Your ass is roadkill. But I hope you’ll try. I’m set to make my money and have my revenge no matter who wins.”

Goroh tightened the laces on my gloves and walked me down into the basement. I approached the ring alone.

The air was hotter, the oxygen thinner, and almost all the major names had returned, fighting with the average Joes for free space. A crowd twice as big as last time packed the underground arena. The mob stamped hard enough to pound thunder from the rickety stands. Whistles and jeers rained over me like arrow volleys. I hadn't expected such a turnout for my comeback bout, thoroughly discredited as I was. I didn't like this at all. What had Goroh done to create such a draw?

I spotted Wario near the front row, munching on some nachos. Waluigi crowded in beside him, using his long elbow to prod King Dedede off his rightful perch, cawing all the while he didn't care what the king's ticket said, this was Waluigi's seat, waaahhh, etc. Wario threw up an obscene hand gesture and I grinned back.

In all directions there were omens of my downfall. Not least of which was the Grim Reaper, the actual embodiment of Death—high up in the nose bleed seats and the only guy in the whole place with no one sitting beside him. Slumped under a rotting black robe, red eyes winking from the shadows of a drawn up hood, his rictus grin somehow widened without the aid of flesh. The Reaper brandished a phone and twisted around to take a selfie with the ring, and my doomed ass, as backdrop.

The ring stood empty. I ducked through the ropes and went to my corner. I wanted to hop around the ring, throw out a flurry of practice punches, do anything to get fired up. Instead I stood my corner like a sentry on duty, not for self-consciousness—for a boxer cannot afford to indulge shyness no matter how vulnerable he felt under collective scrutiny—but rather because I was keen to conserve stamina. A presentiment tingled down my spine that before the final bell rang I would need every last drop of energy.

Someone had arranged front row VIP seating for my fellow assistants: Mr. Resetti, the talking mole, filling poor Jeff’s ears with a comprehensive lecture; Saki, giving me a thumbs-up and a cheeky grin; Sami, the Orange Star army captain in full uniform, granting me a solemn nod; the Demon smirking toothily; the black and white hedgehog guy sitting with arms crossed, frowning like he didn't want to be there and we should all be grateful to receive his scorn; Tingle handing out flowers he pulled from thin air; Kat and Ana lost to their phones; Isaac and Starfy sitting close to one another, just barely touching, as if everyone didn't already know they were an item; even the cyborg ninja, shaking metal head buried in steady steel hands, suffering as always in his own private hell. They watched me, stepping into a real fight the likes of which the Smash Tournament had denied them, a bout that might well be my last. They looked on with mixed emotions flitting over their faces.

Lyn wasn’t among them.

I kept searching. Footfalls echoed from the stairwell. Their approach seized my full attention.

The background roar of chatter dimmed to a few hushed murmurs as the mystery challenger stepped over the threshold. Blue boxing trunks and red gloves caught the harsh light and threw it back. Sweat glazed muscles glowed. He surveyed the scene with a gaze of searing intensity and found it wanting. And then the stranger saw me. The set of his mouth turned grim and he shook his head. Without a word spoken or a second's hesitation, he strode down the aisle, slipped around the ring, and pounced into the opposite corner. The crowd held tight their expectant hush, their collective breath sucked in as if the spectacle unfurling before them was the fulfillment of an unlikely prophecy for which they still harbored some shred of long-suffering faith.

I returned the mystery challenger's burning scrutiny from across the squared circle. In this quiet before the storm, I studied my enemy. A weathered visage made sinister by a long scar running over the brow, down through the cheek. Two-foot advantage over my height and at least three weight classes heavier. Built like a comic book barbarian, his chiseled muscles flexed with the sinuous grace of a born and bred predator. The hands in their gloves looked large and solid, a clue they would deliver an extra edge of hurt to every punch. A lantern chin bespoke of an iron jaw Glass Joe would fain renounce gluten to possess.

Lyn’s words floated to the surface of my thoughts. _Outside the Smash Brothers playpen, we are killers playing killers’ games._

His giant's gloves flexed until they creaked. They say you can't judge a book by its cover, but you can infer a few things. What did appearances advertise and what did they try to conceal? Mystery man had a lot to show off, and he did so with an air of ardent honesty. He didn't need to hide a lack because he had it all. Even so, there was a lingering impression of something closed off about his face; I could not capture it in concrete terms, though the emotion written there was plain enough to read. This guy was ready to decapitate me.

I struggled to locate a name to match with the face and drew nothing but blanks.

After a long hesitation, Goroh sidled up to my corner, not the least ashamed about the belated display of support. "One last thing. Watch out for his right. Hell rides his right."

"Good to know."

"I'm rooting for ya," he said.

''Yeah. Nothing suspect in your motives here at all.''

''Happy to have your trust.''

Super Mario himself bounded into the ring, wearing a ref's striped shirt and black slacks. At least I could count on him to know the difference between a hit below the belt and a lap dance. He read off the rules: “This bout is at catch weights, World Video Boxing Association rules, with a few amendments. Three-minute rounds, one-minute break; there will be no technical knockouts counted nor decisions by points. The match will continue for as many rounds as it takes, until one of you can no longer stand, or throws in the towel.

“In this corner, the former WVBA Champion of the World, Little Mac of Brooklyn, New York. Weight 175 pounds. Fifty-seven wins, four losses.”

57-4. So they weren’t counting my fight with Wario after all. Good.

“And in this corner,” Mario shouted, “our challenger, his origin unknown, his record a mystery, his measurements immeasurable. I give you, the enigmatic… Jay!”

Then came the moment the crowd let go the air caged within their lungs, not with a cheer but rather a furtive release of sighs and whispers. It seemed they were as baffled about Jay as I was.

“Are you ready, gentlemen?” Mario waved us up to touch gloves. We closed the empty space between us, unhurried yet tense. At the center of the ring we tapped gloves, but Jay didn’t break away to his corner. He stood still and stared a hole through my head.

Suspense had made me nervy and my traitor tongue decided to take a walk to relieve the tension, right off the edge of a cliff. “Take a picture, Jay. Not only will it last longer than the bruises I'm about to give you, but I'll have something to autograph when this is over. Surely you got a sweetheart or a kid who'd love to have a souvenir from the world champion.''

“Jokes,” said Jay. That single spoken word expressed a world of smoldering contempt. His voice rumbled. “Some jokes are spoken. And some stand upright, walking around pretending to be men. Both are a waste of oxygen.” He curled his lip into a sneer worthy of placing first in a Waluigi impersonation contest. “Though at least one your size wastes less air than most.”

It was a lame jab at my height when compared to all the quality burns I’d received over the years. Yet this guy pushed my buttons like no one else had since Super Macho Man. I gave him what he wanted and got angry. “Yeah, you’re huge, all right. Works out great for me. It's a chance to show all these fine folks why they call me Giant Killer back home.”

I put up my dukes for show, not intending to get myself disqualified. Jay snapped into a fighting stance.

Seeing that, the truth finally dawned. His stance was as distinct as a fingerprint, and it was familiar to me. He struck that pose often during Smash tournament matches. The chin looked wrong, but perhaps it was the lack of a helmet that changed it. Jay didn't need to spout a one-liner for me to know who he was, but he did anyway.

In a voice colder than any glacier-themed Smash arena, he whispered, “Show me your moves.”


	5. A Single Bright Grain of Truth

My heart thundered hard enough to shiver the corneas of my eyes. Two nights ago, a stranger sat beside Lyn in the stands, wrapped in coat and hat, a face concealed in shadow distinguished only by the cold gleaming of sunglasses. No, not glasses. It had been the light reflecting off the polished visor of the racing helmet Falcon was rumored to never remove.

Captain Falcon, the most celebrated hand-to-hand combatant in Smash history. This was Lyndis' mystery friend. The same she'd asked me yesterday not to fight. It all made a twisted kind of sense.

“This is boxing, not wrestling, guys. Quit the posing and get back into your corners,” said Mario.

Back we went. The crowd hushed, waiting for the gong. As expectant quiet soaked through the arena, in came intrusive recollections of meaningless conversations, and splinters of orange Brooklyn sunsets, and crisp autumn mornings when I ran through the parks of Red Hook and the Battery. This always happened before a big fight. My brain, anticipating the abuse coming its way, tried to escape to somewhere else.

The bell rang three times.

Its sounding freed me from the distraction of thought. Wholly present, I charged from my corner. “Jay” glided up to intercept me.

Normally, I left it to the other guy to strike first, like with Wario. Get a read on how the bird fights, then I can begin to learn how to beat him.

Tonight the Smash sickness had seized my heart. The lust to show off was overwhelming. All I wanted to do was hammer a few cracks into that stony face. I walloped Jay with an underhand right hook to the jaw. He grinned around my fist, not budging an inch, and returned my opening gambit with a straight right. The sheer palpable force of his arm left a vacuum in the air over my ducking head. I landed a pair of body blows and sidestepped his follow-up uppercut. I grinned and popped him one above the ear.

With every mighty swing, he left himself open. I danced around Jay, landing blows at my leisure while he hammered nothing but air.

Near the end of the round, things grew a little more interesting. Greedy, I hooked for that lantern jaw. Jay blocked it, creating an opening in my guard. A straight right lashed out viper quick and clipped my chin. Goroh had not exaggerated the power of his right hand. It packed the jarring impact that marks a deadly puncher. The world shuddered, but at least my knees held firm. I recovered quick enough to crash my fist into his liver. Jay’s smirk faded but he wasn’t any closer to buckling.

The first round ended. Before we turned back to our corners, I asked Jay, "Still believe I threw my last match?"

Jay chopped my words away with a hatchet fall of his arm. “Tonight, I’m taking you apart.”

“How you gonna accomplish that? You’re crap, pal.”

He chuckled. "You’re the disappointment here, Mac.”

“I’m not meeting your expectations? If you were any real fan of mine, you’d know I’m just getting warmed up.”

His lips clenched into a hard, thin line. They barely parted as the words rumbled out. “Lyn believed in you more than anyone. You let her down. For that, I’ll break you.”

Damn. Score the first real blow of the match! Couldn't very well let that touch go unreciprocated. “If Lyn wanted something broken, she wouldn't need some washed-up meathead to break it for her.” I took a step towards him, not giving the slightest thought to what I was doing.

Mario wedged between us. “Guys, back to your corners, please!”

For a tense moment we continued to stare each other down as the crowd roared, our jaw muscles flexing. We'd already shown off all the other muscle groups. With a hot tin taste of rage rolling over my tongue, we finally broke and obeyed Mario's order.

Goroh gave me some water. Seemed he'd decided to stick around and play at being a corner man after all. I drank a few swallows and spat the last mouthful. My temper cooled fast, thanks to ol' Doc's mental conditioning. I felt great—no, better than great. Positively giddy. As hot-blooded and cocksure as when I was a young man facing down Glass Joe for the first time. This was living. Jay had barely scratched me while I had scuffed him up good.

Across no man's land, Jay swabbed himself down. No corner man for him. The captain worked alone.

In a single round, I had Jay figured out. He was a slugger, not a boxer—all flash and brute force with no technique in evidence. His performance in the ring matched his Smash Tournament personae: always fight like a hero making his last stand; endure epic amounts of abuse; and wade into me again and again until he finally brutalized his way to a staggering, blood soaked finale in round ten. Fight fans ate up this sort of high drama, but it was an excellent way to end your career a broke and broken loser, with permanent nervous system damage your severance package. On the road to the champion’s belt I'd sent plenty of sluggers reeling to the mat. Jay was a supreme athlete and bounty hunter, I had no doubt about that, but he was an amateur when it came to the particulars of the sweet science.

My strategy: taste the fewest knuckle sandwiches possible and hit where it hurt most. Box smart until he fell down.

"He'll be exhausted before round three’s over. I can outlast him."

"Don't be so sure," Goroh said. Sweat rolled off his brow like a Bronx rainstorm, while my forehead had yet to dampen. "He was holding back, testing you out. He’s using the wooden-leg act to throw you off. I've seen him in action, remember."

"So have I. Who’s the boxing champion here? As long as I stay away from that right of his, I'm golden."

"Whatever."

I rushed into round two before the bell clapper had struck thrice. Jay immediately crowded me. His punches snapped out crisp and accurate. Faster than my eye could follow, his straight left beat my left hook. I took a flurry of body blows before I knew what was happening. I answered with both hands, missed, and in the next instant Jay’s hammer-hard right smacked into my brain pan. Jay stepped faster now—ninja fast.

I fought a frenzied battle for space, losing ground all the way. Whenever he could, Jay clobbered my face, then slammed the same hand against my ribs, gunning to punch the heart out of me. Most of my counter attacks flew wild. For every one of my successful hits, Jay landed four.

Goroh had spoken true. The honeymoon was over. Jay had transformed. Round one, I boxed a man. Round two, I danced with a demon.

His poison fist opened up a gash beneath my right eye. I rolled and ducked all I could to escape. Didn't matter any, he stayed close, pistoning away with both arms.

I tried to surprise him by throwing a hard left at his head, but he darted away fast enough to leave an afterimage behind. Caught in my own momentum, I smacked face first into the canvas. The crowd cawed with laughter, and then the gong sounded. He'd drained away my stamina but good and filled me with doubt enough for two championship bouts. I hadn't made a dent in him. Jay, brimming with vigor, shadowboxed in his corner to the delight of the mob.

Goroh had more advice for me. "What are you doing? Stop stumbling around and hit back dammit!"

I nodded. There was nothing else to say.

Blood trickled down my cheek, I stomped into round three with a plan and a grim determination to do serious harm. But Jay still had new tricks to show me.

Long arms afforded him a superior reach to mine, and he used them to keep me at a distance and him safe behind a rapid-fire left jab that poked me repeatedly in the face. Those kinds of punches don't knock a man out all by themselves, but the damage inflicted could soften me up fast. It was like walking face-first over and over again into one of those floating brick blocks from the Mushroom Kingdom. Soon he had me as marked up as a rack of department store clothing. I pawed back at him but it didn't do any good. He weaved serpentine around every counterpunch. He hit me whenever it suited him. I drew close, and he backpedaled away, not from fear, but to play a mind game. The bastard had torn a page from my own book and was jabbing me in the eye with it. My own moves! How far into me had he read?

Too concentrated on chasing Jay around the ring, his sudden switch back to full-on offensive caught my defenses compromised. Jay nailed my nose and set the drums to booming. While I enjoyed the percussion solo, he reared back and buried a glove in my eye, opening the cut further, then sunk the fist into my midriff. The punches came faster, and I only blocked a third of them before Jay had me cornered.

Aggravated, I hazarded some rights at that jaw every time his right glove so much as twitched. A few got through, and after rocking his head back a few times Jay stopped the feints and devoted his attacks to softening up my middle.

The round ended with me slinking out from the neutral corner where I'd sheltered from the storm. Falcon strolled back to his corner, unafraid to show his back to me. Welts rose all over my chest and stomach. Blood dribbled from my face. I avoided Goroh's eyes. The seething crowd was a blurred flickering in the corners of my vision, their cheers and jeers coming through as a background rumble. Didn't matter, didn't care. I heard only a track played on loop in my brain. It was the voices of those I loved and admired saying how ashamed they were of me. Through their scorn, despair threatened to colonize the hollow spaces which had until recently housed my guts.

Goroh did a decent job closing up the cut, grumbling the whole time. Living as a bandit chief required a man to learn how to treat wounds. ''It shouldn't bleed too much, but the best thing for it would be you taking no more punches to the face,'' he said.

This was my deep, dark secret: I can deal out the sizzle but can't eat what I serve out.

In those old boxing pulp stories from the 30's, the hero always had fists of steel and a wood block for a head. The villain of the piece could back a truck over the protagonist's face and the hero would still come up swinging in the final round. That was never me. I’m a classic boxer, not a bruiser or slugger. I stay alive by avoiding the hits, not taking them.

For my entire professional life, I'd never fought for more than three rounds in any given bout. Back home, WVBA regulations prevent fights lasting longer than this. In the absence of any knock outs, the outcome was decided by points scored. But here we were, both in this until one could no longer stand. How many rounds would I last? My face hurt, but my heart's strength still held together. I hoped that Jay could not make the same boast.

Nope. Round four, Jay returned as fresh as if we'd just started. He resumed the offensive with extreme prejudice, continuing the infuriating tactic of socking me in the face, then dropping that venomous fist downstairs to brutalize my middle. I was conditioned well enough to endure a few hooks on my chest or midriff. But there was no soaking up the pain like Jay.

I bunkered behind a constant string of jabs to his face with my left, ripping off his tactic from earlier. This proved a mistake. The captain was an old hand at prying marks from their hiding places, either goading the bounty to expose themselves, or chip away at their defenses until he could waltz right in and claim his prize. He flicked away my lefts with a flutter of his eyelashes and punched back with unchecked savagery. Where I yet to be touched, he planted new scrapes and bruises. Older wounds he drilled like wells, digging deeper into my strata.

Desperate to survive the round, I dropped my guard and put full strength into a slobber knocker aimed at that scarred face floating so high above. I swung wide by a yard.

Jay took a step back and wound up his titanic right arm. Doing this eliminated his guard, but I wasn’t in a position to take advantage. Unbalanced and defenseless from my flubbed uppercut, I could only watch destruction unfurl in slow motion. Jay roared and hurtled at me with the mother of all haymakers. For an instant, I thought I saw living flame trailing off that monster fist, as if at his whim an indwelling cosmic force manifested over his knuckles. Like my Star Punch, he threw his whole body into it. Only a last instant twist of the neck spared what was left of my nose from annihilation. I took it full on my lips and chin instead. Blood flooded my mouth in a hot, salty gush. Lips split against teeth. If not for the mouth protector, I’d be chewing with dentures today. I went down. No, to be accurate, I flew.

Gravity released me from its chains and I floated in the sweet sensation of free fall. The arena wall caught me. I rebounded into the audience. Hands and claws plucked me up and hauled me back to the ring. Shoved through the ropes, I'd returned before Mario called out, ''Six.'' I writhed on the canvas, my brain reduced to a test pattern of blinking lights, my jaw feeling as if it had been torn off.

With painstaking care, I gathered my knees under me and stood by the count of nine. The first knockdown of the night belonged to Jay. My legs shook as if they had chills. Through the haze of agony that hateful face beckoned. I declined the call and kept my distance. Jay came to me. _Crack! Crack!_ Red lightning struck me between the eyes. Never even saw the punches. I lurched up to standing as Mario called, “Nine.” With seconds left in the round, I fled, reeling from the advancing colossus in red and blue who patiently stalked me.

Back in the corner, Goroh had more advice. "I told you. Watch out for that right of his," he barked.

The cut below my eye had ripped back open and bled freely again, my other eye swelling, and my ribs chose this moment to remind me about the punishment they'd taken from all those body blows. Goroh smeared colloid into my cuts and squeezed lemon juice into my mouth. The stinging was a pleasant distraction. "Don't let him pull any more of his hack circus tricks and you might last another round."

The crowd cheered their throats dry. They were getting a good show. Their champ, one of their own, had proven himself against the despised outsider, yet I made a good enough showing to keep things interesting, ducking the one-sided drubbing they'd expected.

Across the way, my dancing partner smiled. He had a few welts on the midriff and a bruised chin, but he didn’t seem the least bit tired.

Dammit! I'd taken the worst of it and he came out looking invincible.

This place. This crazy, corrupting place. Captain 'Jay' Falcon personified the messed up universe of Smash Brothers. It—no, _he_ was turning me rabid. Trying to break me. And what he couldn't break, he would destroy.

A few seconds of break allowed for a review of everything I'd learned about Jay so far. The emerging profile offered little hope. Jay outmatched me for speed and power. I was tiring faster than he. My only edge on him was experience in the sport, the advanced technique years of fighting and training had forged into me. Jay was a bounty hunter and cutthroat race car driver who, like me, thrived on fighting smart; he planned several moves ahead while traveling at high speed.

A hideous realization dawned. Jay represented a perfect answer to my fighting philosophy.

My plan of attack must change. No, there could be no plan. Forsake the childish hope for a careful, strategic victory. Let loose the bounds on my long contained wrath. So that's what I did.

Anger stoked long silent furnaces to life. Fury's heat chased out the chill of fear. Nostrils flaring, I sucked up oxygen to feed the flames. Stupid, getting pissed off in a boxing match. You only get tired faster and you're easier to punch. Part of me didn't care anymore. I needed to hurt something.

The fight resumed. I hurled myself at Jay, tried to surprise him with a reckless charge. I punched rapid fire at every legal part of his body, heedless to whether his mitts were up in guard or not. I poured all my stamina into the barrage, jabbing straight, then trying to hook around to notch his side, slinging fists faster than I could calculate where to place them—sheer instinct my only guide. Jay had seen me clever and he'd seen me craftless, but he’d never seen me like this. I ignored the damage he dealt out, and I began to lead in punches landed.

I reached back into next year and speared his left temple. Jay staggered. Before he could gain an inch of momentum I tore into him, herding him towards the corner. Then I crossed my arms around my neck, sponged up the blows to work in close until I had him trapped, and began to unload. I was a boxer playing a slugger's tactic, but what did I have to lose?

Plenty. Four or five good licks landed before Jay drove a vicious right into my rib cage, just above my heart. The strength inside me turned pink and wilted. I countered and missed. He slipped out of the corner. The reward for recklessness was a flurry to the face. My mad assault broken, another trick wasted. Jay would never fall for the same strategy twice.

Jay, seeing me winded, coiled up one of his killing punches. Not the Falcon Punch, nowhere close. More like the Falcon Punch's vicious kid brother. I flailed out with a left arm that no longer felt attached to its shoulder. Jay took it in the kisser and stumbled, his finishing blow ruined.

Greedy for a quick win, I swung again for his face. Jay counterpunched with a right cross. Our blows hitting at the same time, we socked each other good. Pain bolted across my jaw and laddered down my spine. My eyes filmed over, vision juddering like the deck of a war galley intercepted at ramming speed. Though I felt I must surely crumple, pure stubbornness kept me standing. Right then a gentle tap would’ve put me down. Jay skipped the tap and hammered his fist deep into my stomach. Had I drank more water earlier I would’ve vomited on his shoes.

Falling forward, I reached out for purchase. By a minor miracle, through much groping over his sweat-slick skin, I caught hold of his chest and hugged the captain into a clinch. Jay tried for some jabs to my stomach but I had his arms pinned down. I used the few precious seconds to rest and pull myself together. Mario broke us up. Jay was slow to bring his arms up from the clinch, leaving his chin all alone and unprotected.

Rookie.

This was my first chance to use the Star Punch, my signature move—an uppercut that carries all my weight behind it. It looks all the more spectacular when your opponent is at least two or three feet taller than you are.

I'll show you my moves, bastard! I rocketed upwards, feet leaving the canvas, and soared fist-first into his jaw. The Star Punch rocked his head back, lifting him bodily off the ring.

Jay landed on his boot soles, knees quivering. His stunned head hinged forward—back into striking range. What's that Captain? You want me to show you that one again? My pleasure. I let him have another. Sweet, sweet music played all over that chin.

Before I could exploit my hard earned opportunity, Jay decided to pay me back by trapping me in a clinch. His weight shifted off his legs to around my neck. I raved and cursed, trying to slap him off, but his bulk restricted my arms' movement. Mario hesitated in breaking us apart, and that gave Jay time to recover. Set free, I saw his devil’s smile return. Then I saw nothing as he drove that murderous right hand square into my open eye.

I lost a few seconds, as if I’d once again stepped into a teleporter without a pair of goggles. Time and space resumed to find my carcass laid out on the canvas.

Something about my face felt wrong. A curtain of blood rained over the world. I lifted a hand, then stopped myself before I touched a dirty glove to an open wound. Skin had torn above my remaining eye, bleeding like there was no tomorrow. Pain arrived as a faint buzzing, a prelude to the earnest wailing to come.

Again I rose, chomping my mouth guard, frantically shaking my head to clear the encroaching mist. I could survive the hurt. I could stay on my feet for as long as it took. As long as it took to find a way to beat him.

Jay rushed in, eager to flatten me back out on my spine. Perhaps he thought I was too dazed to see him coming. Instead, he stopped a straight left. He staggered back. I woke up long enough to sink a brutal hook into his midriff. Jay doubled over and I hammered out with both hands, taking him above the ear and smashing his chin. In an instant he surged back and blasted me with a torrid uppercut that sent me into the ropes.

I was nearly gone, but Jay wasn’t taking any chances; he had learned that I was dangerous down to the last pip of energy. He lanced my midriff twice with that red hot left, and when he followed up with the right, I ducked too late and took it on my forehead. I clinched him back, shaking the muzzy stars out of my head. Mario broke us apart and Jay released a swarm of haymakers, slamming away with both fists until he had me tangled in the ropes. The sickening thuds on my skull grew fainter and fainter. Somewhere, far away, the gong finally sounded.

Goroh had to help untangle me from the ropes. Free, I pitched forward onto my knees, lost in a crimson haze. Goroh dragged me back to my corner, cussing me, the universe, and everything along the way, his mutterings almost lost to the screams of the crowd and the pealing bells between my ears.

The wound above my eye hid the world behind a curtain of blood. My nose gushed and my lips were a stinging red mash. I didn’t look at Jay perched in his corner. I couldn’t bear to.

Goroh kept cursing and ranting, but it wasn't his voice I listened to. My old trainer, Doc Louis, spoke to me through the fog of what was left of my mind.

_You gotta hang in there, Mac. You can do this!_

_You shouldn't have come back from the dead, Doc. Not to see me like this._

_Don't get caught by his Falcon Punch, Mac!_

_Heh. Yeah. I'll try and remember that, Doc._

_Look for his weakness. There's always a weakness._

_Yes._

“Yes what? I didn't ask you anything.” A concerned frown sagged across Goroh's frog face.

I murmured. “I saw it, Doc. I know what to do now.”

Goroh spat. ''Well, that's a relief. I'm glad someone besides 'Jay' knows what he's doing around here.''

Memories of Doc Louis had granted my spinning brain a moment of clarity in which I saw the way out of this. With precious seconds to rest and think, my mind played in slow motion each discrete phase of the Falcon Punch's windup and dread unleashing. I rewound and replayed the sequence. This drained my already decimated reserves of mental stamina. Worth it. As time ran out, I confirmed something observed earlier. On the windup, the captain had left himself open. It was a fool's hope. The timing on the counter blow would have to be inhumanly perfect. But maybe, just maybe...

No maybes. I was sure of it.

* * *

Fighters are pugilistic puzzles. I have to figure out the trick that 'solves' them while a strong, angry man attempts to remove my face.

A 'solution' can come in several flavors. Maybe it's a predictable attack pattern that allows me to consistently get in some easy hits. Other times I bait them into attacking, then juke and POW! Let'm have it. King Hippo and Wario were prime examples of this. And sometimes contenders will pull out a flashy gimmick move. These are both the most dangerous and the most exploitable. Great Tiger had liked to teleport around until he grew dizzy and then he was all mine. Piston Honda had a mean hurricane rush, but if I belted him square in the liver an instant before he threw the first punch, down he'd go for the count.

The Falcon Punch was the most potent super punch o' Doom in my experience, but far from the first. The moment when Jay was most fearsome was also the moment he was most vulnerable. Just like Bald Bull.

Bald Bull possessed a glorious and brutal gimmick, one I ranked above those thinking-quick dynamite uppercuts Mike Tyson belted out as easily as breathing.

Bull was a huge, ugly man with a peaked, shiny dome that established half his nickname. "My barber never knew when to quit. Do you?" he had asked me once before I knocked him out and claimed the Major League championship. Baldy liked to rush up on his opponents—with what was more like a demented bunny’s hop than a bull’s charge—and lay them out with a gigantic uppercut. All that towering man muscle gyrating around made it nearly impossible to aim a decent hit as he came for you. The savagely effective Bull Charge earned me the second loss of my career. In our rematch, Bull had already knocked me down once when he went into the crouch that signaled the commencement of his iconic maneuver. I wavered on my feet, bleeding free, face a lumpen swelling of gore. He let me savor the fear, then charged. With everything to lose, I slammed a left hook into his midriff as he landed from his last hop, a split second before he would've swatted my head off my shoulders. Bull folded, speared by his own momentum. K.O.

Countering a fancy move like that—for some guys it was the only 'solution' possible. If I remained conscious long enough, maybe I'd have a shot to steal Jay's fire and stretch his back out on the mat.

* * *

Rounds six and seven dragged by in a long smear of trauma. No more trading quips, no more menacing stares. We communicated solely through the brute syllables of muscle and knuckle. I stopped counting how many times Jay knocked me down. My arms transmuted into lead and I couldn’t feel my legs anymore. I boxed around Jay's offense less and began walking into him, trying to get inside his constant barrage of rights, goading him to try that fancy flaming haymaker. But I was not the slugger here. I paid dearly for every punch drunk push forward. At some late hour I fell into another clinch to keep from passing out.

"Hafta kill me to win, you bastard," I whispered at him, sobbing as I said it because it was true. I don’t remember when I'd decided it'd be so, but there it was. The stony face of Jay remained unmoved by even a flicker of emotion. As we broke the clinch, I lashed out and whiffed and went corkscrewing down onto my face, sweat pink with blood splashing up from the impact. I don't know how I got back to my corner.

Goroh stood there with arms crossed. His head swung back and forth. “This is embarrassing.”

I said nothing. Embarrassment's warm burn would’ve been bliss compared to the black ice pain currently frosting over my nervous system.

“Mac, I could throw in the towel. I’ve had my payback for the busted nose, and I’ve enjoyed the licks you got in on the captain. No one would think less of you if—”

“Throw in the towel and you’ll join me in the hospital.”

I swore I _heard_ the smile crack Goroh's face. “Fine. I didn’t really want to quit watching you get hurt anyways.”

Barely able to see, I stumbled towards ring center to once more embrace my butcher. Jay had lost his hurry. Instead of rushing me, he advanced with careful, deliberate footwork. He opened with the combos: socked my burning chin, rocked my abdomen, and pounded on my ears until the cartilage rumpled up like cabbage leaves. My punches had half their former kick. While the shoulders maintained strength, my arms had turned into rubber, moving all wrong. I was falling apart and Jay sensed it. He played for my eyes, and quickly closed the last working one. As he was doing it, I got a few hard rights into his ribs, over where I thought his heart might've been. If they fazed him, I had no way of telling. Jay did not stop. He was still on the winning side of the punishment exchange rates. The one minute break had done nothing for me.

As we pummeled each other, water and blood splattered from our soggy gloves with every hit. Blind and desperate, I held back, conserving what I could for the next round. Had to stay conscious long enough to get a crack at the Falcon Punch. One way or another, the next round would be the last.

With the tolling of the bell, Goroh propped me up on his meaty shoulder and ferried us back to the corner. The crowd was a distant drone of white noise.

"Lance my eyelids. I need to see." Goroh didn't say a word. Normally, this would be done with a slat of chilled steel pressed to the swelling. Inject some adrenaline and seal up the works with petroleum jelly to keep the gloves from sticking to damaged skin. What Samurai Goroh had was the jelly, and a sword. A sharp pain, then the pressure released and a foggy wedge of pink-tinted light opened up. My legs were gone and my arms needled me as if they'd fallen asleep. My chest was slick with blood. Someone began massaging my shoulders and stomach. I heard Doc's basso voice in my ear as if it were the olden days again and he, not Goroh, was still my corner man.

_Listen Mac,_ he said. _Catch him off guard to stun him, then unload on him._

_I know Doc. But God, he's hurt me bad._

_Don’t give up, Mac! Fight!_

_I’m so tired._

_Join the Nintendo Fan Club today, Mac._

_Uh, yeah. Sure thing, Doc._

He'd been a fine trainer and a better man. But I had to admit, some of the things Doc used to say ringside made no damn sense.

A strange peace settled over me. This was it. Despite my brave words, this fight was all over but for the falling down and I was ready to do that now. Just tip over the side of this stool. Enjoy a nap in the ring while everyone else worked out the tiresome details. Even if Jay went for the Falcon Punch again, I no longer possessed the wherewithal to counterattack. All my grand strategies had failed. My vaunted technique and lifetime experience were useless against this dancing mountain of muscle and invincible bone.

Still, before the perfunctory ritual of my eating one last knuckle sandwich before nap time, I wanted to know how far I had made it.

"What round is it?" I asked.

"The tenth. How are you feeling, Mac?" asked a voice more elegant than anything Goroh's throat could produce.

I groped out, searching for her in the red mist. I wanted to touch that perfect face, even through viscera caked gloves, and I no longer possessed the higher brain function capacity required to be ashamed of openly expressing the desire. Lyn's hand found mine and curled into it.

"You're in a bad way. Do you want to stop?" she asked softly.

"Would you?"

"Never. I am a warrior of Sacae."

"Yeah. There you go then. Being around you has changed me.”

“Mac, I wanted to say…”

"I'm sorry," I muttered through smashed lips.

"It is your enemy that should be sorry. Make him sorry, Mac."

That damn bell clanged. Jay waited for me in the ring center. Bloody welts blistered his torso, his face grim and disfigured with a black eye and a nasty cut along his brow I didn’t remember putting there. I tried to stand up, and nothing happened. My legs were noodles.

“Help me. My legs’ve locked up.”

“He’s a goner,” Goroh said to Lyn.

“Damn your hides. Get me up!”

Goroh and Lyn propped me up to standing and shoved me into the ring. After a few robotic steps, enough life returned to carry my weight again. I shambled out to meet Jay. Never had I been this groggy in a fight—tiptoeing the thin, blurred line between consciousness and knocked-the-hell-out.

I slurred out, “Eve'nin Captain.”

Jay threw the first punch. I sidestepped it and jabbed him twice. He telegraphed a left uppercut and I counterpunched with a left hook that stopped his arm. Jay twitched away from my follow up. His arms had slowed and anticipating his patterns came easier, but his feet were still quick and Jay was far from predictable. I punished him for one out of every two moves he made. I counterpunched where I could, knowing I could not knock him down this way—the last hope lay in working Jay up, baiting him into unleashing his ultimate showstopper. One more Falcon Punch, and if I took this one in the kisser... well, forget the match, I might never stand up again.

We clubbed away at each other, trying not to slip on the blood slick canvas. Or was it ice? I had to be careful on the glacier not to slip and fall on my ass. How embarrassing.

Jay lunged forward and tried to wrap me in a clinch. Over his head the auroras twined around each other. They swam in such a beautiful way, rippling through every color in the rainbow. They seemed to favor red.

I staggered backwards fast enough to evade the next attack, then unleashed a sloppy compilation of body shots that turned his face pale. Jay gritted his teeth in rage and walloped me with a right. My face stung as if hornets were having a field day on my chin. The last blow had forced the mouth guard through the skin beneath my lower lip.

The prerecorded crowd track cycled through cheers and jeers to the rhythm of the dancing northern lights.

Jay didn’t want me to breathe. His knuckles cracked into what was left of my eyes. Those same knuckles snapped down into my liver. A toxic rainbow of agonies squeezed out of the organ into the rest of me. I nailed him back over the heart, missed, and hit the diaphragm instead. This time his breath wheezed out in a wavering, agonized gust.

Vengeance followed swiftly. Black fires burned in Jay’s eyes. He set to with a hundred punches, hitting me harder than ever. I couldn’t act. There was no place I could escape to where the blows didn’t follow. The red globe of a clenched glove swooped down from the ceiling, darkening to black as it eclipsed the lights.

I struck the canvas with a wet smack, and this time I felt it was to stay. Dim and far away Jay hovered, unsmiling. I couldn’t reach him now. I tried getting my legs under me but they wouldn’t move. I wept, furious at my weakness.

Lyn, distant, sweltered in a red haze. Her mouth moved, she was talking to me, but I couldn’t hear anything over the roar building in my skull.

Stupid. How could I? I—

I needed to believe that she understood me, finally, at last.

Jay didn't get it. He didn't understand. Warrior versus athlete. Smash champion versus Assistant. Insider versus outsider. We were all wrong.

I had come to the Smash tournament to prove I wasn't a has-been, not yet. Lyn thought me a foolish innocent blundering into the dragon's den. Jay thought me a poseur out to leech off the successful, an impudent punk who must be beaten back into his proper station. All wrong. In the world of Smash Brothers we were all terrible at recognizing what was real. Strip away the dressings and convention of boxing, ignore all contexts, burn away the vanity of identity and fame, and among the remaining ashes you will find a single bright grain of truth.

It is this. I am a small man who lives to humble the mighty, to bring the proud to their knees, to topple those larger than myself. I was at peace with this revelation. It might be killing me, but a fight like this is where I'm most at home. You're just a tourist in my domain, Falcon.

Had Lyn come to understand this about me?

The things we want the most we push away. That had to stop, now. I saw Lyn, and I saw the new life we could have together. Saw an old, time-crusted number crumble away before a clean slate; saw the question that still hung undecided behind her face.

Don't cry baby. I have room enough for you now. We'll have all the space we need. I just have to clear the last of it out. With my fists.

And I got up. My legs shook like streetlamps in an earthquake, but they carried my weight forward.

Jay’s proud shoulders slumped and his face oozed sweat and gore. The occasional blows I’d landed had taken their toll, but the captain remained far above my pitiful state.

I must’ve looked like a car accident warmed over, because he appeared surprised to see me throw the next punch. I drove my right full into his face and his head snapped back like it was mounted on a spring. He set my ribs to burning again with a combo of jabs, then turned me sideways with a right cross that missed my jaw and hit my cheekbone instead. I spun back and laughed, spitting blood.

He feinted a right, smacked me back with his left. I faked a fainting spell that nearly became the real deal. Jay didn't wait for a written invitation. He reared back, right arm raised.

One frozen frame of this moment has stayed with me for all the years since, like an imprint of feeling left upon the soul by a strange dream which refuses to fade long after the dream that impressed it has slipped away. Inside, I coiled up whatever strength remained in reserve. The moment had arrived. Win or lose, Captain Falcon had beaten me to the last atom of caring.

With the hiss of fire igniting, Jay exploded out of the windup with his straight right arm splitting the universe a mile in front of him. A raptor of flame clutched his fist, riding for hell and the end of time, spreading wide its phoenix wings to encompass the aeons. White star fire spilled from its opened beak. He came on faster than anything alive, but I was already moving. I threw all into my left fist and shot for his heart, straight and true. My fist connected hard enough to feel, through the glove, his ribs bend under my knuckles. The Falcon Punch veered past my left cheek, missed me by a micrometer. I lost an eyebrow and skin off my cheek. Air rushed out of Falcon's mouth, chased by an ugly rattle. He stepped back, doubling over, every intake of breath a grating rasp.

I looked down at him and he looked back up at me. Then I gave him the Star Uppercut.

The captain toppled to the canvas. As the count began, he pulled himself up by the ropes into a crouch, but couldn’t rise from there. Mario counted to ten and raised my glove towards heaven. Drooling with happiness, I passed out.


	6. A Fairy Tale For Tough Guys

After the match, I spent a night and day under a drug-induced coma until Doc mustered enough faith in my constitution to let me risk consciousness. Emerging from a blank span of lost time, the first thing I saw was Lyn. Painkillers unfocused my vision, as if I were still lying in the ring, beat all to hell, so I had a hard time making out her face against the room's other blotches of color. Didn’t matter. No finer salve for a pair of sore eyes could be found in the entire multiverse.

When I faded in, she was alone and talking to a bandaged wreck laid out on the hospital bed. Took a while to realize the mummy at rest was me. "—are doing as well as can be expected. I told them to spare themselves the worry. You're hardier than anyone expected. It's all anyone can talk about," Lyn said. "The greatest upset in underground gladiatorial history. I truly thought—" Her lips kept flapping, but there wasn’t enough of me present to catch the rest. I remained still (no choice there, really), absorbed in the sight until I slipped away.

The second time I awoke to a sun drenched hospital room, beside a table stacked with bouquets of strange flowers and gift baskets overfilled with fruits and other treats both ordinary and strange, all wrapped in gaudy green ribbons. It seemed everyone had adopted green as my official color. The notes attached were either signed as _Your Biggest Admirer_ or, _Fellow Fighter_. A few even read, _Your Longtime Fan._

I found, tucked away among the baskets, a note written on a plain sheet of paper in a plain envelope: _We’re even. –SG._

Doc Mario waltzed in and plucked up my chart, happy to find me conscious. He shined a light in my eyes and scribbled notes.

“Am I gonna live, doc?” I attempted a mock feeble voice, but the hoarse croak that came out was real.

Doc gave me a brave smile and informed me that not only would I live, but only a light course of physical therapy would be necessary to ensure a full recovery. He tapped the saline bag at the other end of my IV tubes and winked. “My own special recipe.” A white speckled red mushroom floated inside the saline. I shuddered and tried not to think about it.

Lyn came to visit me after supper. While I finished my cherry gelatin (the hospital food went down no worse than the cafeteria’s, and for this I was grateful), Lyn checked over my get-well presents. “The food is certainly understandable,” she said, flicking a finger towards the colorful fruit arrangements, “but the significance of cut flowers escapes me.” A slight downturn of the lips as she ignored the flower heads and examined the severed stems.

“They’re a show of, uh, sympathy. I think. Hadn’t really given it much thought. People like the way they smell.”

“I find them ominous. A cut flower soon withers.” Lyn shrugged and turned back to me. “The tournament committee wants to annul your contract with the Smash Brothers.”

My shoulders ticked up in a shrug, a reflexive bracing against embarrassment and disappointment I discovered I did not feel. “That so? I guess they couldn’t ignore the illegal blood sport extravaganzas forever. It’s probably for the best all around.”

Disgust shadowed across her face as Lyn shook her head. “That’s not why they want you gone, and you know it.” Yeah, I did know. It publicly shamed the Powers That Be to have one of their prize fighters defeated by a contender they deemed unfit for the real bouts. When they placed a trophy on the display-only shelf, they expected it to stay there.

“Looks like it’s back to retirement for me.”

Lyn approached the window and stared hard at the simulated scenery outside. “You are…eager to leave then.”

I watched her. It took a few seconds to figure out which buried emotion she struggled with expressing this time. She fingered her sword hilt. This, I realized, was Lyn’s version of fidgeting. Holy god, something had given her a case of the nerves. Maybe she had come to a decision about me after all.

“Can’t lie, I’d pay good money to never again endure the company of the crazed weirdos living here.”

“I see…”

“But I’d box bare-knuckled every last one of these mysterious committee members in a cage before I’d say goodbye to you.”

Lyn’s smile outshone the sun’s rays streaming through the windows. “That is a warrior’s boast, Mac. Hardly becoming of an athlete.”

“Just give me one more day in bed and a clean pair of boxing shorts.”

Lyn waved me down. “Take ease. The cage match will not be necessary. Hearing the rumors of your dismissal, the other assistants and a few key Smash Brothers raised enough of an outcry that the committee has elected to give you a two week suspension instead. You'll be back in the game just in time for the finals. Whether or not they'll award you a contract for the next tournament is a different matter altogether.”

Part of me really had wanted to leave this place for good. Yet I felt relieved, and for more than just Lyn’s sake. “And just how long were you going to keep that from me?”

“I'm sorry to deceive you, but I had to gauge whether you really wanted to stay or not.”

“Well, now you know. If only I knew what to do with my two week vacation.”

A sly quirk sneaked onto Lyn’s lips. “I’m sure I’ll be able to think of something.”

* * *

Three days later, when my face finally settled into something resembling its former glory and I could walk again under my own power, we caught a flick at the tournament complex’s theater. The movie was a remake of Shakespeare’s _The Tempest_ filmed in the Mushroom Kingdom. All the extras and half the cast were natives of Mario’s homeland, which made the classic tale of the supernatural all the more surreal.

Afterwards, we walked down the main concourse together under the platinum glow of the famous moon lamps, their screens molded into the faces of a hundred unique moons from a hundred different worlds. The crowd coursing around us was as fantastic and otherworldly as any Hollywood had managed to realize on screen.

“Goombas really can fly,” I mused. A winged Goomba in a tutu had played the part of Ariel. They might've used wires and fake wings, yet the actress' pair of flappers looked and moved too organically to be anything less than natural.

“You were right. I don’t like movies,” said Lyn. “It is an unsettling ritual, sitting in a dark room with strangers while phantoms dance on a silver screen.”

“I noticed you didn’t let go of your sword for half the movie.”

“Every time Caliban appeared I expected him to leap out of this movie and maraud among the seats. I perceived it all as a flat image… and yet they were all so real.”

“Excuse me,” said a deep voice behind us. I rounded to find the Hammer Brother standing there. He was a fellow assistant, a burly turtle that walked on his hind feet and wore a helmet, always. A sheepish expression stole over his broad face as he held out what looked like a baseball card. “I wus kinda hoping I could get yous’es signature on this,” he said. The hammer bro was having a hard time looking me in the eye.

The memento was a glossy trading card, not for baseball but for Super Smash Brothers fighters, officially licensed and highly collectible if the clean graphics and flashy foil seal of quality were any indication. On the front was a picture of me posing in black tank-top and green gloves, one tanned bicep flexed, an old promo photo taken years ago during my rise through the circuits—for what specific occasion I couldn’t remember. Printed on the back was a brief profile of my career, abilities, a symbol representing my universe-of-origin, something called an elemental alignment, and my stats. The record printed there in glittering white was out of date: 41-2. Those numbers swelled until they pushed everything else out of sight. Old wins and losses. A big dusty house waiting for me back in Brooklyn, crammed with trophies, signed and framed pictures, championship belts, old gloves under glass cases.

Heirlooms of the past filling my mind's eye, home suddenly seemed like a museum dedicated to some other celebrity’s life, coming at me with a familiar intimacy I neither appreciated nor welcomed.

The hammer bro handed me a pen. I struggled with the temptation to cross out my record and write in 0-0. Or tear the card into pieces and throw them into the gutter. After all, I was a new man with a new life. I hesitated. The felt tip hovered over the smooth surface.

I looked back up at Lyn and she brought the sun back into the night with her smile. She took a step closer to me.

It wasn’t as if I hated boxing all of a sudden. Much of the past was still very dear to me, such as my memories of Doc Louis. And the victories. Once you accepted the wins, disowning the losses and the defeats endured along the way struck me as indecent. On the other gloved hand, was I going to spoil this fresh start just to hold onto one or two old pieces of baggage?

“Who do I make this out to?”

“Make it out to Joe.” He squirmed. “That’s me.”

_Keep swinging!_ I wrote, signing my name under it. Then I crossed out my record and wrote in _58-4_.

I handed it back. “There, I even updated it for ya.”

Joe gushed his thanks. “Say, Mac. Why was Captain Falcon so hot to catch hands wit' you anyways? Why'd he take his helmet off? Everyone’s got der own theories…”

I shrugged. “He's a real man of mystery. Wish I could tell you.”

That satisfied him. Joe the Hammer Brother beat feet back to the party quarter of the complex, no doubt to brag to his drinking buddies about his newest collectible.

Later that night, outside her room, Lyn took hold of my callused hand and said, "You have ten days left on your suspension. In the time remaining, would you like to travel with me to the plains of Sacae? Or… I suppose we could vacation in your world.”

I said, "Lady, I'll go to the ends of the world with you. Just as long as it’s your world and not mine! I’ll go get my stuff right now."

“Then hurry. Let us be gone tonight. I have visas for the both of us.” She sounded tense, her words hurried, but at the moment I was too excited to care.

I charged down the sterile corridors, eager to pack my junk and leave. There wasn't much in my room besides clothes and shoes, so stowing some bare necessities for travel into a gym bag didn’t take long. Every possession of significant worth was back home getting dusty.

I zipped the bag closed and turned to leave. Captain Falcon reclined against the door frame, blocking the exit.

He gave me an easy grin. His helmet dangled from one gloved hand, leaving bare a face close to fully healed, while mine still had a ways to go. This was a different face than the one I had struggled to demolish under the glaring lights of the basement arena. The transformation ran bone deep, extending even into the depth and shape of the eye sockets. Only the soul looking out from the cold brown eyes was the same. Falcon had remodeled himself from the neck up and he looked good. He was relaxed, almost lazy, but his muscles bulged with resting power.

Facts seldom adhered to a man like Falcon. Lore and myth were his shirt and pants, his cloak and armor. One bit of legend everyone knew: Falcon never removed his helmet, never showed his face to anyone, lest his many enemies discover his identity.

Why then was he showing his face to me? For that matter, why the hell had he exposed himself in the ring before a crowd?

"Hey," I said.

"Hey." Captain Falcon came off the door and sauntered over to me.

“So, who’s your plastic surgeon?”

Falcon laughed. “Nice of you to notice. The main reason Samurai Goroh arranged our match was to capture images of my true face and sell them to the highest bidder. So I wore a little… well, you could call it an advanced, bio-engineered makeover. Before the tournament’s over he’ll blitz every lowlife hive in Mute City, hawking images of my fake mug. It'll be a glorious waste of my enemies' time, chasing down an identity that doesn't exist. Goroh will be all the more desperate for a payday once he discovers Wario and Waluigi stole the hoard of credits he made working as a bookie in Smash Town. A real pity someone slipped them the combo and location of his personal safe.”

Falcon ran a thumb over the curve of his newer (even larger, somehow) chin. “You’re looking at the real deal here.”

''The treat of a lifetime, sure. And what's it to me?'' I kept my hands down, balled into fists. I couldn't read what he was about. The captain stood between me and the exit. He'd penned me in.

"I researched every fighter before I arrived, even the ones they insulted by retaining them as ‘assistants.’ I read all about you."

"That must’ve been quite the challenge for you. Or are they publishing biographies as picture books now? Did it have pop-ups?"

Falcon pretended I hadn’t opened my mouth. "You're far from the most powerful warrior here. But out of all the candidate histories I've read, your story is the one I came to admire most. Perhaps I saw a reflection of my younger self in your struggle against impossible odds to reach first place. I hated the Smash organizers when they opted to keep you off of the tournament roster."

He drew close, too close. My condition was deeply suboptimal for a street fight. I concentrated on his every movement, watching what he did with his hands and feet. A weird energy charged the air between us. The room grew warm.

"When I saw Goroh hanging onto you, and saw Wario throw your first fight, I assumed the worst. My image of you had been destroyed."

"Yeah. And you didn’t want a phony anywhere near your girlfriend. I get it. But you pegged Lyn all wrong. She’ll never go for a showboat like you.”

Falcon cracked a strange grin and drew a little closer. We were mingling eyebrow hairs at this point. Fit or not, I was ready to lose patience and take a crack at blasting some gaps in that perfect smile.

"You misunderstand. The ways I make my living require me to gauge others as rivals to beat, or prey to hunt down. Sometimes I stop seeing people as people altogether. They become... prizes. Lyn is different. She will not countenance being a prize for others, no matter who fights for her favor. You, on the other hand, have more than proven yourself to me. I was a fool to mistake what Lyn saw plainly from the beginning. You will be a great friend to her." He placed an amiable hand on my shoulder.

"You're a man after my own heart, Mac. We could be great friends, you and I." Falcon's voice became breathy. "Maybe more. Nothing in the universe could come between us… and what we desire."

I removed his heavy hand as politely as possible. "Except Lyn. I'm going home with her."

“During your suspension?”

“And after this tournament too, if she’ll put up with me hanging around.”

The strange electricity between us vanished, grounded by my words.

Falcon gracefully backed off without losing an atom of cool. He put on his helmet, maybe to hide the way his eyes failed to match his easy grin. Twin white triangles projected onto the helmet visor, representing his eyes and their motions.

"Heh. Being late to the finish line is a new experience for me. But there’s always the next race and we will meet again. I've made sure of that." One visor triangle winked at me.

Before I could decide just what sort of vague promise or threat he'd handed me, Falcon was gone.

I stood there a moment, nerves buzzing, face numb. The tumult of a small city's worth of multidimensional citizenry going about their daily business seeped through the walls as a distant droning. I became lost in its grinding call, at once anonymous and known, alone and embroiled. A keen need for Lyn's company stabbed my chest.

Returning to her room I found her sitting on the bed, brow creased, frowning. She was not alone.

''That's your call to make, and I respect it. We must all fly alone, in the end. May the winds be kind,'' Samus was saying.

''May your wings never tire and your beak stay sharp,'' replied Lyn. I had walked in on the end of a conversation, and what sounded like a serious good-bye.

The bounty hunter slid off her perch atop the desk and marched for the door, declining to look my way. There was a sense of something off, a bad energy in the room.

“What's up?” I asked.

Samus paused. Ice chip blue eyes locked onto me. Even out of the suit, she had the height advantage.

“Hey, sorry if I—” I began. Samus telegraphed nothing. In an instant she clamped the bottom half of my face tight in the iron vice of her fingers. This being one of the rare times I'd seen Aran outside her armor, a sudden revelation popped to mind. While out in public, Falcon wore a helmet with a visor that gleamed. But he wasn't the only Smasher who did so.

Somewhere, in the distance, Lyn breathed a warning. “Samy. Put him down.”

“No worries.” Samus trilled, birdlike, in the back of her throat. Her gaze did not break from mine. “Lyn has my respect. For now, I will honor the trust she places in you and set aside what is owed. As for my own judgment, it remains unconvinced.”

''Any time, any ring sweetheart.'' It's hard to sound tough when your cheeks are squashed against your molars.

Deathly serious, Samus answered, ''I'll hold you to that.'' Her nails, sharp as eagle's talons, raked across my jaw and she was out the door and gone like an intrusive thought dismissed.

''Hell was that about?'' I rubbed my face. At least she hadn't broken the skin.

Lynn shook her head. ''A personal matter between friends. It's not important.''

"Something wrong? Anything I can help with?" I asked.

Her face smoothed over and the mood lightened. "No! Nothing at all. I just... are you ready to depart?"

I wondered then if she’d known Falcon had been waiting in ambush to speak to me, and if she had anticipated the conversation we would have. Or maybe she'd just wanted me out of the room while she dealt with Samus. I shrugged it off. Her business, not mine. Some things are best not picked at.

"Hell yes. I'm sick to my soul of this place. Let's blow this popsicle stand and grab some horse for dinner." One corner of her mouth quirked up into a half-smile. I slipped an arm over her shoulders as we walked to the transfer terminals. She didn’t shake me off.

Luck was with us and there were hardly any lines. R.O.B. technician droids rolled about the terminal, scanning luggage and monitoring the performance of the inter-dimensional warp gates. With the lowering of a gyro into its socket, space-time's skin peeled back inside the free-standing frame of our gate to reveal plains of wind-lapped grasses. Lone trees stood sentinel over the tops of low, rolling hills. It was high noon on a cloudless day, and the air that wafted into the terminal smelled fresh with the scent of wild flowers and clean soil. Sacae was not as pretty as the auroras, sure. But this beauty was real.

“I think you’ll love the plains,” Lyn said just before we stepped over the threshold.

“I love ‘em already. Just promise you’ll ease me into horse riding. Horses are scary.”

Lyn laughed. “Even the most ill-tempered nag is better company than Wario. You'll do fine.”

I pulled us up short at the last second. “Wait, hold on a sec.” I pulled a pair of goggles from my pants pocket. “I finally remembered to bring some.”

**The End**


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